He's not my boyfriend! Yet
by That Kid With the Long Coat
Summary: Moriarty's back and more insidious than ever. A great game has begun, but will it ever end? Will Sherlock and John make it through? More importantly, will they do it together? A work in progress. Hope you enjoy, duckies.
1. Be back in ten

Alright. I'm taking the initiative and challenging my brain with my first BBC Sherlock story (I mean actual story, not that John drabble I did...). I have a basic plot down, but what happens between now and then, and how it happens, is a mystery to me.

But what I basically want to say is I love this pairing and the entire Sherlock fandom, and if you find me ruining it for you, please let me know. And while I'm not begging for reviews, they are highly appreciated. I honestly _do_ try to improve my writing with each story. Though whether or not I succeed depends on the slim possibility I don't get carried away and ignore any means of planning before I let my fingers start typing... Also, if you find **any** spelling or grammatical errors, _**do not hesitate**_ to tell me about them. Normally, I can catch them all, or at least _most_ (I'm a Grammar Nazi, forgive me), but my keyboard has been acting up, and keys have been sticking. _Damn brother has been eating while he checks his damn e-mail and plays his stupid games again..._

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing, to my utter disappointment.

* * *

"Sherlock, I'm going out!" The voice floats from the bottom of the stairs, just before its owner walks out, pulling the door shut by the knocker.

The detective attempts a low grunt in response, but he's not exactly committed to the action. He's been lying on the couch - head resting on one arm, feet crossed and propped on the opposite, with his fingers steepled under his chin - for sometime now. John is used to the unresponsive lump at this point, and no longer expects any acknowledgment from it. And he will continue to do so for at least a few more days. He knows better than to interrupt his friend's complex and brilliant train of thought, for any reason.

However, something clicks in the back of Sherlock's mind. He tries to ignore it, but it keeps buzzing about, jabbing at him in a most irritable manner until he can't take it any longer. In one fluid movement he rises, steps on and over the coffee table, strides to the mantle, and wraps his long fingers around his cell phone.

Bring milk.

SH

As soon as it sends, a sigh escapes his lips. Now what? He's lost nearly everything he's so delicately pieced together in his mind over the past fourty-six hours, and now that he's up and about the thought of returning to his previous immobile state is... distasteful.

Deciding to check if anything at all is happening in the world below him, the dark-haired man paces over to the window, staring sharply out of it, keen eye watchful for anything important or mildly interesting. It only takes moments for Sherlock to discern that there's nothing, nothing at all. It's so ungodly boring and _dull_. Just the same people going on with their same lives in the same way. It's all quiet, all disappointing. He opens a new text on his phone.

Hurry back. I'm bored.

SH

* * *

John chuckles lightly at that last text. _You're always bored, Sherlock_, he thinks good-naturedly, glad that his flatmate is no longer inert. He doesn't bother texting back - he'll simply send a reply on the way home, not in the middle of the market.

After nearly forgetting the milk and having to back-track, the good-doctor finally manages to make his way outside, bags in hand, and scours the street for a cab. In one hand he has his phone.

I'll be home in five minutes, if I can get a cab. If not, make it ten.

John

A response comes almost instantaneously.

Just hurry up.

SH

Smirking lightly, the fair-haired man continues his search, though every cabbie he tries to flag down passes him by with out a second glance. And he's not even covered in blood or grime this time, nor is he with his (infuriating at times) friend. It seems, however, that their reputation has been spreading, even if they haven't been paying much attention.

He lets out a small huff of annoyance before he begins planning his route back to the flat. John never notices the man following about twenty-five paces behind him.

* * *

Musician's fingers pluck the violin strings impatiently. It's been well over an hour since John's text and there's been no sign of him. It's not like the man to be late, or to get side-tracked like this, but Sherlock doesn't let himself panic quite yet. His friend was in the military and is a grown man, perfectly capable of taking care of himself. Yet there's some nagging ache in the back of his mind that begs to differ.

Nevertheless, he continues to sit there, fingers dancing over the strings now. The detective knows if he tries to call or text again it will only get on the doctor's nerves. "_I can take care of myself, Sherlock Holmes, I don't require your constant meddling_," Sherlock can already can hear him say, tone scolding, eyes contrastingly warm, and the detective feels a smirk stretch one corner of his mouth briefly.

His phone suddenly sounds its text alert, and he scrambles to open it. A million and one things fly through his head, half scathing remarks, some others questions about where the **hell** John has been all this time, and a slight few asking about the doctor's well-being. The remaining are all possible scenarios that could be happening at this very instant - and none of them are very pleasant, but then again, Sherlock himself has never exactly been one for such a thing. Then everything comes to a earth-shattering halt when the text finally opens.

Hello, love :). I have your playmate, and if you want to see him again you and I are going to have some fun. Let's play a game. Win, you get John. Lose, you don't. You have one minute to respond with an answer, or the game ends early.

-Jimmy

* * *

_Okay, that was really short and a little choppy, but I have an idea for a longer, more complex second chapter. Be patient with me please, I don't sleep so my brain is at half-capacity at the moment. (grin)_


	2. I'm coming!

You guys are... amazing. Really, I love you all.

I'm going to try and write everything down as fast as possible. After four days without internet, my brain has been bursting with ideas, and I don't want to lose them. But before I make up for leaving you with a cliffhanger, I just need to say thank you for reading, reviewing, favoriting, and everything else. I appreciate it, because truthfully, I'm a little nervous writing. I feel very American writing about a British programme... and it shows in my writing too. (I used "writing" a lot... [laugh])

As with before, I'm typing as fast as I'm physically able, so if you see errors (or I'm ruining your fandom, this pairing, etc) let me know. I'm good with questions, complaints, concerns, whatever you have to throw at me. Again, not begging for reviews, but they fill my day with happy sparkles and rainbows.

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing, as always.  
_Note:_ Yeah, this is eventually about John and Sherlock being together. Not friends, something more. If you don't like that, I do deeply apologise, but I have **no regrets**. Also, I love Moriarty's signature myself. I thought it would be plausible that just to mock Sherlock he would sign his texts "Jimmy"... it had to be done. (Yes, that _was_ a random nugget of worthless information.)

* * *

Sherlock feels his blood run cold, a pit seems to open up in the bottom of his stomach. A chilling dread sets into his bones and his knees start shaking, to his disbelief. There have been few times he's found himself this alarmed, but all of them happened to be when his friend was in danger. So he shouldn't be so surprised when he finds himself typing a frantic reply back.

Where is he?

SH

For an instant, the world stands still. Then his mind kicks into overdrive, but instead of looking for solutions to the problem, all his thoughts go over - in excruciatingly terrifying detail - every possible situation John could be in right this moment.

The dark-haired man is immediately made aware of the deep-set panic taking up residence within himself. He watches his phone screen intently as it jumps in his trembling hands (_God, he's actually _trembling).

Sherlock waits on pins and needles for an answer.

Oh, Sherly, Sherly. If I told you it would spoil the game. You are playing, aren't you? Wouldn't want poor John Watson getting hurt, would you?

-Jimmy

Fingers fly across the keyboard.

I'll play.

SH

For an instant, _just an instant_, the detective almost surprises himself. He _should_ be thinking this through, he _should_ be trying to think rationally, he _should_ be making scathing remarks and threats to Moriarty's life. Yet he's not. Slowly, Sherlock comes to the realization that if this was anybody other than John, the situation would be entirely different.

Goody! There are some rules, however.

-Jimmy

It's at this point the detective realizes he's truly under Moriarty's thumb.

What are the stipulations?

SH

As it turns out, Moriarty has kept it simple. _One, two, three._

The men at Scotland Yard aren't to be involved. Sherlock isn't to breath a word to anyone about their little "game". Three strikes, John dies.

Oh, and the detective has roughly twenty-four hours to figure it all out - if John can stay calm and not use all of the oxygen before Sherlock can find him.

He's pacing in a frenzy now, eyes closed (he knows the layout of the flat like the back of his hand, there's no need to watch where he's going), long fingers tangled in a mess of dark curls. It's been a long time since the man has worked up a dread like this. Moriarty's voice floats mockingly front and center in his head, Irish lilt ever-so prominent. He thinks to the market, where John was last heard of, and sprints to his room. Throwing off his robe madly, he flies about in a whirlwind, changing into a fresh shirt and jacket, pulling on socks and shoes. Eyes wild, he rushes to the sitting room and down the stairs, snatching his long coat and scarf on his way. Sherlock has absolutely no time to lose.

* * *

"Damn, damn, **bloody** _damn._" The irritability in his tone is prominent, yet only barely masks the anxiety that is also present. John has no idea what happened. One minute he was crossing the street, fully intending to cut through the alleyway on the other side to shave a few minutes off his long walk back to the flat. The next, he was out cold. Or did it go quite like that? "No, someone was following me from the market," he mutters, cursing himself for letting his guard down. Now he was stuck in this... this...

What was this? He can't see a damned thing, it's pitch black in here - and musty. His nose wrinkles at how stale the air is.

Reaching out with his hand, John blindly takes a step forward. Then another. And another. After roughly two meters, something brushes against his fingertips. Smooth, but solid. Concrete. Relatively new, by the feel. Just what the hell was this?

_Sherlock_, his mind calls out desperately, hoping in vain that somehow his detective can hear him,_ help me..._

* * *

There's people everywhere. In the streets, in shops, on the sidewalks, in cabs. Even the alleyways and side streets are crowded (when did all these people get here?). Sherlock tries to run, but it's so congested, he simply can't. The urge to scream at everyone until he's hoarse is highly appealing, but he holds himself back - just barely. Moriarty may be watching. Instead he weaves through the crowd, taking advantage of his height and lithe figure. Delicate looking, but strong, pale hands push others gently out of the way when it's too tight a squeeze, avoiding knocking anyone to the ground. Though this urge is also overwhelming.

His friend's name (_John, John, John_) is running through his mind like a mantra, along with the phrase (from the Irish bastard), _You need to find clues, Sherlock_.

_Damn Moriarty. **Damn him to the bowels of blood-boiling, gut-wrenching, flesh-ripping, demon-wailing hell where they can just take his**- _Suddenly his phone rings. The detective rips it from his pocket and looks at it _**-and rip it off, and feed it to the drooling, man-eating, soul-ripping hounds of Satan himself**._

_Mycroft. What could he possibly want? _Sherlock presses the ignore button and shoves it back in his coat. He has no time for his older brother. Yet something briefly flits in the back of his mind. Mycroft never calls. _What if it's important?_

No. There are _more_ important things at hand. John will always be more important than anything his brother could ever say to him, any case he could ever have. Anything Mycroft will always be trumped by John.

* * *

John has resorted to sitting in the middle of the room(?) by now. The floor is hard and uncomfortable, concrete as well, and chills him to the bone. God knows how long he's been here. The man has searched the entire area - feeling the walls, the floor, the ceiling (which is an inch or two above his head) - and all he's found is a vent that's approximately ten-by-fifteen centimeters across, a reinforced steel (air-tight, locked) door (with no knob or keyhole on the inside), and twenty-four small, simple mobile phones. Each is identical, and all are prepaid with exactly thirty seconds left. He's tried calling Sherlock, the Yard, anyone he could think of, but the devices are (apparently) only able to receive calls, not make them. Everytime he's tried, he recieves a text, mocking him. He can't reply.

Sweet John, you have to wait for Sherlock to figure it all out. Your life is in his hands.

-JM ;)

* * *

By the time he finds it, the consulting detective can feel his temple throbbing methodically in his ears. Don't bother asking him how he did it, just that it took him an eternity to do it. Sherlock sighs heavily and glances at the people around him, looking over produce and such. The piece of paper between his fingertips flutters as he holds it up to the light.

_Good job, Sherly. You found the first clue! Isn't this fun? For each clue you find, you get one phone call to John, for thirty seconds. Now run along and finish our game. No more help from me, now you need to rely on the good doctor's memory and deductive skills._

On the back is a number. He doesn't hesitate to dial, and practically flies out of the market. It rings once, twice, three times. Sherlock is biting his lip now. Then-

"Sherlock?" a panicked voice whispers from the other end.

"John!" he very nearly yells in reply. "Where are you, what's happening, are you alright?"

"I- I don't know."

"Are you hurt?"

There's a small pause. "Well no-"

"John, listen to me, tell me anything at all that can help me find you- quickly!"

"Like what?"

_Twelve_ seconds now. "John, anything," he pleads into the phone. It's almost as if the doctor can see the heart-wrenching expression on Sherlock's face. He takes a moment to think, judging by the weighted silence on his end.

"I'm obviously underground, and the place is sealed tight. There's absolutely no way out from the inside. There's a vent, but I assume that's simply there so I don't run out of air too quickly - there's no flow as of yet. The air is stale, and the entire room is four by four meters, from what I can tell. It's pitch-black, Sherlock and-"

He waits for the doctor to continue, but he doesn't. "John, what is it?" _Twenty-one seconds_. No response. "_John_!"

"_I'm_..."

"John, tell me. What? _Are you alright_? _What's the matter_?" he asks, tone growing soft instead of sharply desperate.

He hears John swallow, tongue clicking in the back of his throat. "_I'm scared_..."

_Twenty-six_. Sherlock's eyes widen, and his tone switches to sooth. "John, it's going to be alright- I'm coming for you, it will all be-"

* * *

The call ends. It just bloody_ ends_. One moment, John feels almost alright, with Sherlock being so uncharacteristically concerned for him. Telling him it will all be okay. The next, he's back to the silence and the inky-black of his prison. He almost feels like he could have a cry, but he won't. Not yet. That's below his dignity.

"God, _Oh God_..." He's really in deep this time. Especially if Sherlock is relying on him. "God," he repeats, trying to steady his shaking hands as his breath hitches in his throat. John finally manages to focus on one thing and one thing only.

_I'm coming for you. I'm coming for you..._

* * *

_Was that still mean? Another cliffhanger? Aw, I am mean... But it was longer this time, yes? A little better with something resembling a plot?_

_I'll try to keep this speed going and keep posting every few days. If I don't, send me hate mail. Stay tuned, my lovelies, I appreciate all that you do._

_Next up, Mycroft joins in. What fun!_


	3. You found me

_Oh god_, I just realised I made John seem a bit pathetic... And now he's a bit of a "school girl"... Oh dear me.

If you're still with me (GAH! DELAYS DELAYS!), thank you lovelies! I'm really not sure how I'm going to resolve this yet, or if Moriarty's game even really makes sense, but I'm just gonna run with it. No turning back now.

Not quite sure (exactly) how long this is going to be either, or how I want it all to end (there will be several more chapters, however. I've yet to get to the point of this whole story). Suggestions are welcome. As always, thank you for everything, and let me know if you found something I did totally wrong. Mycroft joins in on this one. _Oh dear_, Holmes sibling rivalry imminent, or is big brother coming to save the day? Let's find out together, _shall we_, I know as much as you do. (Again, I don't sleep, so if it isn't the greatest, I do apologise.)

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing. Just the crack that flows from my brain.  
_Another note!_: I enjoy being small enough to appreciate every email I get from this website (squee). You guys are amazing. Really. Let no one tell you different. And little shoutout to _ArianaLangdon_,** please don't take my rainbows**! **Look**, **I updated**! And thank you very much for your review (grin). The same goes to _iccle fairy (_two!_)_, _I'llbeyourPatronus_, _Olivia Solar_, _Silverstar to-Ennien_, and _Warm-Glow_ (thank you for the rainbows, love). Thank you for your lovely reviews. And thanks again to all who favorited and all that. I promise I'll shut up now. After I tell you it starts to get a bit Johnlock-y. Not your bag? Sorry dearest. Can't help it. When you get an itch, you gotta scratch it.

* * *

John forces himself to suck in a deep breath and hold it. He was in the military, _God dammit_, he's better than this. He needs to keep his head on straight. Think of how he's going to get out of here. The doctor begins to pace impatiently, hands clasped behind his back. How did he get here? Where was he now? _Think John, think!_ He can hear Sherlock shouting at him, even though the detective isn't there.

"Shut up you bloody prat, I don't need your help _all_ the time," he grumbles to the voice, mouth twitching slightly at the irony, because yes he _does_ need Sherlock - not just now, but indeed all the time. John leans up against one cold wall and crosses his arms. Oh yes, how he's been spoiled. How many times has he heard that deep baritone and smiled; has he listened to deduction after deduction in awe; has he gazed into those bright, indescribable eyes and thought of how perfectly dangerous his life was now?_ A hell of a alot was how many bloody times_. Nothing was boring. Nothing can ever be boring if Sherlock Holmes is involved. John has simply learned to live off of that, he almost _needs_ it - like a drug.

John shakes his head vigorously, clearing his head. No. He was not going to do this again. He would _not_ think of those grey (Blue? Green?) eyes and drift away, nor those cheekbones (_and how right Irene had been when she said she could cut herself slapping them_), nor that long, slender neck that was so ridiculous in those shirts he wore (_God, what he wanted to do to that neck..._). No. John was going to think about all the times he had the patience of a saint with the infuriating detective. He was _not_ going to dwell any longer on the **_slim_** (_wrong_! try _probable_) possibility that he liked Sherlock a_ bit_ more than he would care to admit.

* * *

The man sighs heavily for what seems like the millionth time since he's tried calling his brother. Little Sherlock, who thinks himself so smart and above everyone else, so stoic and unable to be touched by emotion, is breaking at the seams because of this one humble doctor. The elder Holmes brother watches for roughly three hours as the detective runs about the city like a wild man, calling John every so often when he gets something right - all the while trying to get a hold of the little prat.

Mycroft is a smart man. He knew what was going on from the moment one of his men informed him that they had seen Doctor John Watson being shoved into the boot of an unassuming vehicle in the parking lot of an abandoned warehouse. He knew who was involved and had immediately tapped his brother's mobile line. He had heard the conversation, and had spent his time not only calling his brother to no avail, but setting up a bit of a plot to help him.

"Sir, we're ready," a boy in a brown suit finally tells him as he watches Sherlock's long coat disappear into an alley. The camera angle switches, and his brother is back in sight. A hand waves dismissively, while another reaches into his pocket.

Sherlock, for Christ's sake, answer your phone. This is ridiculous.

M

Of course, there's no reply back, and Mycroft's mouth stretches further into a well-used frown.

It's about John you prat. I can help you find him.

M

Almost immediately (despite all his insisting he prefers to text), Mycroft has an incoming call.

"It's about time, Little Brother," he answers tartly. Mycroft almost thinks he hears a low rumble coming from the other line for a moment, but dismisses it.

"My-!" Sherlock tries to snap, before he's interrupted. "The British Government" can clearly see the fire in his brother's eyes, even on the black and white camera footage.

"You can scream at me later, just get in the car," he says scathingly, his patience wearing thin as a plain black car pulls up in front of the detective. For a moment, it seems as if Sherlock is going to argue, but he quickly closes his mouth and climbs inside. Mycroft watches for a few moments before he rubs his eyes tiredly. _What won't he do for his dearest brother?_

* * *

The door crashes open with a bang, and for a moment Mycroft assumes it has been kicked in (it _has_). In moments, angry (green?) eyes are staring him in the face, speaking volumes. "Where. Is. He," Sherlock enunciates carefully, and it's not a question.

Mycroft gazes at the stiff-lipped detective, studying him. The younger Holmes seems to be struggling between hatred for his brother and worry for John. Satisfied, the older man stands. "I'm not a miracle worker, Sherlock," he warns, pacing to the row of computer screens against the opposite wall. "And this is Moriarty we're dealing with." Sherlock opens his mouth to utter some fiery retort when he's interrupted by a raised hand. "But," he continues, and Mycroft knows all (or at least enough) of his brother's attention is focused on him, "my men have narrowed it down to ten possible locations throughout London." Looks are exchanged between his employees briefly, their thoughts obvious (_pain in the ass_).

Sherlock glances at his watch. It's been roughly five hours and twenty-three minutes since John's disappearance. Moriarty's words echo through his mind (three strikes, John dies). He can't afford to check each one.

"Is there anyway to narrow it down?" he asks, an actual question this time. His older brother searches his face momentarily, as if perplexed by the action. Apparently, something in his look affirms the elder man's suspicions, and he waves a suit of roughly forty forward.

"Well," the man starts (_a mixed accent with mild Scottish undertones, slightly wheezing, obviously a smoker, wife is cheating on him with his best friend_), "our system seems to have been hacked into. The footage overlaps throughout the whole city for twenty minutes, made to look like nothing eventful was happening. There's no sign of Doctor Watson, or the car, anywhere."

The detective sighs heavily, quickly losing patience with this man. His eyes flick to Mycroft, irritation plain as day, and his brother takes the hint.

"But, we did some hacking of our own. It would appear that Moriarty has his own cameras set up around London," he says, and Sherlock scoffs.

"Obviously," he rumbles. "Get on with it. There's no time for this."

His brother simply obliges. "Not all of the cameras were facing where we needed them to, however, based on snip-its of the data we could collect, the doctor's location has been narrowed down to here, here, and here," Mycroft gestures towards the screen and a worker highlights the locations on screen with green dots. All are within a ten mile radius of the flat.

His mind racing, Sherlock meets his brother's eye. "I need an exact location." Then something clicks. Suddenly it all seems so obvious, with all of the evidence here in front of him, added with his conversations with John. He vaguely hears Mycroft shouting behind him (where are you going?) as he walks out the door, but the detective pays no attention. "I won't be needing you after all, Brother Dear," he mumbles simply, sprinting as he reaches the hall. A nagging voice is chastising him as he runs, saying this is much too easy, that there has to be a loop hole somewhere, but the prospect of finally having (his) John back is the only thing he can process at the moment. _Oh, what that doctor does to him..._

* * *

Mind blank, Watson just sits there, his legs crossed. How long as it been? It has to have been at least six hours by now, but it might as well have been an eternity in this light-less hell. He hasn't heard from Sherlock in a while, and something about that added with the heavy silence deeply troubles him. The vent still hasn't spit out any oxygen, and the air is becoming ungodly thick and heavy. All that carbon dioxide. More readily absorbed by the lungs than oxygen. In what universe does that make sense? A gas that can kill you takes priority over the one you need to survive. Absolutely perfect.

"Guess Moriarty got impatient," he murmurs to the empty space in front of him. The doctor stands and begins to pace the short way from one end of the room to another, thinking morbid thoughts.

_What if he doesn't find me in time? What if I die here? (Oh God) What if I never see Sherlock again?_

It's as if Sherlock read his mind; at that exact moment he hears intense banging on the other side of the door. More banging, and a rattle. Moments later, two gun shots are fired followed by one more massive blow, and the door swings open reluctantly, the sudden light blinding him. John soon recovers and squints at the detective, transfixed for a moment by those dark curls; the way he's holding that gun and breathing hard; the sheer determination in his features. But _only_ a moment. Sherlock looks up at him, expression unchanging. "That was _tedious_."

The doctor stands frozen, mouth slightly agape, then faster than his mind can process he has his arms wrapped around that slim waist with a face full of Sherlock's pale skin. John buries his face there in the crook of his friend's neck, his eyes wide open at first, but then he clenches them shut.

Sherlock simply stands petrified, not knowing how to respond. The doctor waits, then starts to draw away, face slowly turning crimson, but before he can move an inch Sherlock wraps his arms tightly around the smaller man and lets out a slow, shuddering exhale.

"John," he whispers softly, before he rests his chin on his friend's sandy hair, thinking he's unheard. But he isn't. The doctor feels a corner of his mouth twitch. _Sherlock_, his thoughts reply.

* * *

Was that alright? Did I make up for those cliffhangers? More chapters to come! I hope you enjoyed! Might not post for a little bit, because my mum is starting to get pissy at me for staying up. ...Ah, hell. I won't be able to resist. Forget I mentioned it.

God, I need sleep_. (laugh)_


	4. Safe and Sound

I've been holding off watching The Reichenbach Fall for so long now, because I always knew what was going to happen. Well, I watched it tonight, and I cried like the ridiculously involved fan girl with no life that I am. No regrets. But my emotions are just like...augh! Imagine a double decker hitting a bike at full speed, head on. The bus was 2.3 of Sherlock. The bike is my feels. Yeah...

But, _I'llbeyourPatronus_! You're reviews, love. _You're reviews_. **Oh god**, I was smiling, and blushing... Thank you.

And _Warm-Glow_, no. The game is far from over... Do you honestly think I would end the game like that? Much too easy, not enough angst, and not nearly enough suspense. Stay tuned love, we'll get there. (wink) I just need to get some happy, lovey moments in there first.

Disclaimer: I don't have to say I don't own this again, right? You get the gist? I can stop putting this up here? Good. Now read. (If you like.) Oh! It get's a little more Johnlock-y. I've changed the categories accordingly, but it's still rated T. For now...  
_(Not so) Little note_: And thanks to everyone else who favorited and reviewed. I appreciate everyone, really. And I can't decide if John's eyes are blue or brown! Fan fiction dictates strictly (at least what I've read) that they are blue, but that seems to go along with the stereotypical "dreamy, blue-eyed blond" thing everyone gets into. Pictures and scenes I look at though, about ninety-percent of the time, it's quite clear that his eyes are brown. So that's what I'm going with. John's eyes are brown. Alright, I'll shut my cake-hole now.

* * *

Moriarty glances up from his handiwork briefly to watch as the scene unfolds before him. A small smile quirks his lips. _How touching_. It seems Sherlock managed to weasel his way out of this one with the help of Big Brother Ice Man. The game was _ruined_ and that simply wouldn't do. But it was alright. This was only a practise game - just to see if The Virgin could handle the real thing. Jim's smile turns into a manic frown. **He can't**. No matter how much Sherlock tries to say that he's not ordinary, he doesn't have a heart, he's above emotion, and he is all about the logic, it's not true. Oh, the detective may be all that under ordinary circumstances, oh yes, but as soon as John is thrown into the mix -

_He get's so soft and **boring**_, James thinks, chewing on a piece of worn-out gum, but he doesn't care. His brain is reeling, turning, ideas from the darkest, most twisted recesses of his brain coming forth.

_Sherlock and John. Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. Mr Holmes and Doctor Watson. Hat-man and Robin. The Reichenbach Hero and The Bachelor. _God, it seemed like everyone shipped those two, and now it's starting to all look true_. _Now_, if the consulting criminal can play around with that a bit... _

_This could be a rather good game. _Better than he could have hoped_, _he thinks_, _pushing away from the desk and the computer screen to pace around 221 C Baker Street, the picture of Sherlock with his eyes scratched out lying forgotten.

* * *

_There's something different about Sherlock_, John thinks. It's not that anything has changed, really. There are still human body parts lying in the fridge. Nicotine patches and cigarrettes are scattered about, and the flat in general is a complete mess. Sherlock is still an insufferable ass, a show-off, and thinks he's smarter than everyone else. He still ignores John's privacy and personal space and mildly mocks his intellect. But it's... _different_. The doctor's mind keeps flicking back to the word as he stares at Sherlock, pacing about in that ridiculously long length of blue satin. His bare feet pad silently, stepping on and over anything in his path.

After a few moments, the detective finally feels John's gaze on his back. _Really_, every part of him. Green (today) eyes meet John's searching brown ones quizzically.

"Is something wrong, John?" Sherlock asks, and John even thinks there's something different about the way his friend says his name now.

The doctor takes a moment to fold the paper and rest it in his lap, willing the blush creeping into his cheeks to go away.

"_No_, why Sherlock?" John replies, trying to match the tone and ease with which his friend managed. He doesn't, but Sherlock smiles (slightly, and briefly) at the effort.

The dark-haired man turns and continues to pace, and John can't help but watch every move he makes, trying to read him. The word "different" keeps surfacing, but the doctor can't pinpoint what has changed. Sherlock sighs. "You've been trying to read the paper for the past hour, but you haven't gotten past the first sentence on the first page. You haven't taken your eyes off of me since you sat down. And you're not in your usual spot," he says without emotion. Or was that a mild hint of confusion at the end? Surely not. Almost as soon as the idea sprouts, John writes it off as all in his head.

Shifting in the middle of the sofa the doctor sighs, completely abandoning the paper now, letting it drop onto the coffee table in front of him. "I dunno, Sherlock," he starts, and as soon as the words leave his lips, he's telling himself to shut up. Closing his mouth, John tries in vain to stare out the window at anything, but soon his detective is standing right in his line of vision, expression begging him to continue. _Begging_. That's a word John would have never associated with him. All the same, though, the fair-haired man keeps talking. "You just seem a bit... off since I got back home..." he murmurs apprehensively, noticing how Sherlock's eyes suddenly harden and his frame goes rigid. The detective hates any thought of Moriarty's game. He hasn't mentioned it, hasn't tried to find Moriarty, he hasn't even thought about it (intentionally) since John's safe return two weeks ago. Sherlock has barely left his doctor's side since, lest the spider strike again. He never wants to feel that way again - never wants to feel like his heart is in his throat, or his stomach is in his shoes, or that the ground has fallen out beneath him.

Never has he felt terror like that, and he is **_not_** eager to relive the experience.

He coughs once and shakes his head slightly, curls bouncing around his head, before he strides to where John is sitting. The other man looks up, brow furrowing before they shoot up, trying (and failing) to hide in his sandy hair as Sherlock lies down casually across the shorter man's legs. John's knees are nestled in his lower back, Sherlock's feet are propped on one arm of the sofa, and his head is resting just shy of the other.

At first John is taken completely aback, holding his arms at his sides as if he doesn't know where he should put them. He waits a few moments, but soon Sherlock's breathing has deepened and his fingers are steepled beneath his chin, and it becomes obvious that the detective has no intention of moving any time soon. So John settles for resting his forearms on Sherlock's stomach, toying with the fabric briefly before he orders himself to relax.

* * *

An hour later, to John's utter amazement, Sherlock has fallen asleep. The doctor watches intrigued as the dark-haired man's chest rises and falls slowly, his hands clasped there lightly. John really hasn't gotten the chance to see Sherlock actually sleeping. Sherlock doesn't sleep. Sherlock lies still and let's his brain run laps while his body rests, Sherlock takes brief naps occasionally, but Sherlock doesn't generally sleep. At least not anywhere John can catch him in the act, that is.

But it was worth the wait. John savors the absolutely tranquil expression on his detective's face, how the corner of his mouth keeps twitching in his sleep. The fair-haired man loves how there isn't a line apparant anywhere on his pale skin, how he is at peace, how Sherlock isn't frowning out at the world, wondering how normal people go about their day, or how he tries to block everyone out. John suddenly feels an overwhelming urge to run a finger down those prominent cheekbones, and perhaps down that smooth jawline, but he holds himself back. There is already enough physical contact between the two of them, and the doctor feels like if they touch anymore, one of them will break.

The air around them is already filled with the closeness, _the intimacy_. And they are just _friends_. John frowns as the word slithers its way around his brain._ Friends_. Is that really what they are now? Is that really how one would describe their relationship? With Sherlock lying in his lap, how they're both single men living together, how Sherlock has no regards for personal space? John sighs. Friends just doesn't cut it anymore, and he struggles to swallow the lump in his throat.

* * *

Sherlock watches John from his chair. The doctor is slowly dozing in his own chair opposite, chin propped on his hand, elbow resting on the arm of the chair. His eyelids are drooping slowly, and the detective finds himself smiling when they don't open back up. Sherlock has always loved watching John sleep. He always looked so peaceful, so open. So... _vulnerable_. The word stumbles around his brilliant mind, making him loom forward in his chair, reminded suddenly of Moriarty and his game, and a small, but unnerving text he received three days ago.

How's your lover-boy doing? Not letting him stray to far, are we?

-Jim xoxo

He had refused to reply, instead keeping an ever more watchful eye on John. It was rare that Sherlock would let him out of his sight for longer than fifteen minutes, just enough time for his doctor to shower. Even when John was asleep, Sherlock would pass the nights standing in his doorway, waiting for the alarm to go off before he would head downstairs to act like nothing was happening. When the detective himself in need of sleep, he always made sure John wasn't going anywhere, and his particular favorite was sprawling over the shorter man's legs when he was reading on the couch, ensuring that he wasn't moving while Sherlock slept for an hour or two (at the most).

Now the detective watches the steady rise and fall of John's chest as he sleeps, deep in thought. This one man, who is two inches shorter than the average Englishman, has changed so much about his life. It almost disturbs him, how much emotional attatchment he feels for John. _All hearts are broken... Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock_. A sneer stretches across his face as Mycroft bullies his way to the forefront of his mind. He is well aware caring is not an advantage. But, maybe he felt differently before he met John, because right now, as the doctor mumbles little nonsense words (some sounding very much like a certain detective's name) in his sleep, Sherlock is beginning to think that maybe it's moments like these that make the danger worth it. It's John who has taught him that maybe if you care enough about someone, everything will turn out all right.

_As long as Moriarty stays out of the picture_.

Suddenly, John twitches, the bridge of his nose crinkling up slightly and Sherlock's thoughts are whisked back to the present. He is very aware of a sudden need to fix a piece of John's hair that isn't quite in line with the rest of his bangs along his forehead. So, Sherlock rises gracefully to his feet and steps across the short distance between them. He hesitates for a moment, fingers slightly outstretched to the other man's face before he allows a breif touch, just enough to brush the pesky hair back into place. John let's out a low noise of what sounds like delight, and the doctor ever-so-slightly presses his forehead against Sherlock's fingertips. Sherlock smirks softly, and let's his finger trail along the side of John's face and down his cheek before he draws away. After a few moments of contemplation, the dark-haired man sits down on the floor with his back to his doctor's legs and thinks.

_Oh, John. What you've done to me._

**_What you've done to me..._**

* * *

_It's four a.m. and I have to be up at six. Maybe I'll make the next chapter suitably long, since I know what I want to do (pretty much)._

_Anyway, I hope you enjoyed the Johnlock feels, and I hope I did a decent job writing them (and Moriarty). My brain tends not to work this early, so if not I'll change any problems you have later._

_Oh, and review if you like. I enjoy them, but if you don't feel the need, that's alright. Just stick around if you fancy._


	5. Yes

Alright, stopped drinking _Monster_ before I write, took a nap earlier (RARE), and last night I got a full eight hours of sleep (thanks _Silverstar-to-Ennien_) and I've calmed down considerably. Just...ugh. Anyway, thanks if you've stuck around so far. This is not my best piece of writing, but I have a full-plot for the final conflict with Moriarty (it's actually pretty clever in my opinion). It should take up three chapters (there will be at least ten in all, half-way there!) The rest will pretty much be exploring Sherlock and John's relationship (kinda fillers, but kinda not) - so the next two-ish. Well, I realise I "talk" a lot at the beginning of these things, just thanks for hanging around and reading. And putting up with my insanity and overall freakish-ness. Also for putting up with my procrastination. The last few nights I swore I would get up and type, but I fell asleep instead... (cough, cough) oops. Also, the weekend was a bitch. So sorry I haven't posted in a week...

**Disclaimer:** I couldn't resist. _Sherlock_ is **not** mine (even if I wish it/he was).  
_Note:_ Enjoy, and review if you find the time. If not, that's alright. Ah, and due to actually thinking this out and sleep, this chapter may actually be decent and longer than usual. If not slightly cracky at Sherlock's emotions._ Forgive Sherlock's emotions... _Also, the Johnlock _actually_ begins here. **_No_**. **_REGRETS_**. None. Sorry if this isn't your bag, though.

* * *

"That was_ tedious_," Sherlock grumbles as John opens the door to 221B Baker Street. Immediately the taller man glides up the seventeen steps into the flat, and by the time John makes it behind him the detective is sprawled in his chair, left leg hanging down over one arm of it, the other leg curled under him. He's still in his long coat, but the scarf has been removed from his neck (_don't stare, Watson, damn you_) and he's wringing it gently through his hands.

John smirks. _Tedious_. That seemed to be his friend's favorite word as of late. Everything was either tedious, dull, or wasn't worth his time. "Was it now, Sherlock? Because I believe you were smiling the whole time, positively chuffed in fact," the doctor replies cheekily, and when he does Sherlock's mouth turns into a positively perfect replica of his older brother's frown. John almost - _almost_ - mentions the resemblance, feeling it on the tip of his tongue, but Sherlock (being the brilliant man that he is) anticipates what he's going to say and cuts him off with an ice-cold glare that practically screams, _I am nothing like my brother_. Instead the doctor turns and hangs his jacket on the hook, and Sherlock decides to take this moment to verbally respond.

"That was before those _morons_ at the Yard ruined it all," Sherlock mumbles, more to himself than to John, who overhears and knows by the added venom in the younger man's voice that he's talking about Anderson.

John manages to turn back around at the precise moment his friend decides to look at him, the green (today) eyes flicking away in an instant to look at something on the floor, his brow furrowed in concentration as the sandy-haired man tilts his head to the right, a frown quirking the corners of his mouth. Something wasn't right. Sherlock didn't act like this.

He tries to attract the taller man's attention, to no avail. Sherlock never looks away from that spot on the floor, deep in thought about something. John would almost say that his friend's eyes look sad, maybe even worried, or (_God forbid_) **scared**. Sherlock feels the other man studying him and grimaces at the thought of his expression, swapping it out for a more emotionless mask (resembling Mycroft further). His gaze moves slowly to John's beige (_boring_!) jumper and he's nearly surprised to see the doctor still standing there, hands on his hips expectantly.

"Everything alright Sherlock?" he asks when their eyes finally meet.

The detective lies easily, eyes guarded. "Of course, John. Why would you think otherwise?"

John feels his brow raise and Sherlock watches the action closely. He doesn't want to say anything, _won't allow himself_ to say anything because it's _stupid_, and means _nothing_, and since _when_ has he cared about what other people think or say? But another look from the doctor, _a little softer this time_, has him spouting out what's bothering him - even though he's trying (and _failing_) to convince himself it's not.

"Anderson told me that eventually I'm going to get under your skin and you're going to leave because everyone else already dislikes me to the point that they dread my presence, no matter the context. He said that I'm willing to do anything for the case, even risk you, and eventually you won't be able to take that and you'll leave," he murmurs, as if it's the most unimportant thing in the world, well aware of John's incredulous expression. Sherlock doesn't bring up the part where Anderson also mentioned that one day John would be lying dead in some alley and it would be_ the freak's_ own carelessness that put him there.

The doctor blinks a few times at the blunt way Sherlock says this, then feels his ears turn red. "How did that come up?"

"Apparently I was being bothersome," the consulting detective dead-pans.

John nods calmly but inside he's boiling. He knows Anderson knew he was hitting Sherlock right where it hurt, just to see him crumble a bit. He may try to hide it, may try to ignore it and say repeatedly he doesn't have a heart, but the shorter man knows somewhere in there that Sherlock really does care about him. He's seen it, on rare occasions, _felt it, _has been told the same by Mycroft. _Hell_, Sherlock himself had told him that he was his only friend.

Sighing, he takes a step closer to Sherlock's chair, face grim. "You don't honestly believe that, _do you_?" he whispers, tone dangerously calm. It's almost a threat.

_Looking away was the worst possible thing Sherlock could have done_.

In an instant, John is in his face, fist clenched on the lapels of his coat. The detective is startled at first, unable to do anything but look into those dark eyes and wait. The shorter man's teeth are bared and for a moment he relishes the fact that he has to bend down for _once_ to be face to face with his (infuriating) friend.

"You honestly think I'd leave you Sherlock? After everything we've been through together? I'm glad your opinion of me is so high." John wrinkles his nose derisively at the cruel sarcasm, sure that he shouldn't be enjoying the other man's slightly anguished expression.

"What? Has the _Great Sherlock Holmes_ forgotten how to **speak**?"

Sherlock - who has _always_ had trouble with emotions, _never really understood them_, who _always_ found opening up to anyone _painfully_ difficult - snaps. For no real reason at all besides the fact that the _one man_ whom he feels any _real_ attachment to is mocking him, two inches away from his nose.

"You know damn well I haven't John! It's just- I-" he breaks off for a moment, waiting patiently for some of John's anger and frustration to fade away, lost in the quiet closeness. "I don't have many people I find tolerable, less I find likable, and only one I rely on everyday, even if we don't actually spend that much time together," Sherlock finishes, shaking mildly. At this point, his eyes are locked on the man in front of him, who somewhat resembles a guppy with his mouth opening and closing like that.

John has no idea what to say to that. It's rare that Sherlock says anything at all about his feelings (that **don't** have anything to do with being bored), and for him to pretty much come right out and say, "_I need you_," is a bit of a shocker. The doctor watches as his friend nibbles at his lip a bit, looking nothing like himself with his wide-eyes and worried expression.

Eventually, the atmosphere turns awkward and John lightly bumps his forehead against Sherlock's and draws back, lowering himself into his own chair opposite his friend, who blinks once and smiles, reading the gesture appropriately before looking away again, lost in thought.

* * *

John tries his best to ignore the buzzing feeling in his legs as they go numb. Sherlock's head is rested comfortably in his lap, and while it's not unusual for the detective to ignore his personal space, there's something different- something intimate in the air. A sigh leaves the doctors lips as his fingers comb through dark curls, finding himself inappropriately undisturbed by the action. A low rumble rises in Sherlock's throat, and he shifts closer to John before opening his light grey eyes. John can't decide if this color is more intriguing than the pale blue they were earlier or not. The consulting detective tilts his head as effectively as he can in his current position and gazes at John curiously.

"Why are you looking at me like that?" he asks the doctor, who purses his lips, but doesn't break eye contact.

"Just thinking about how things have changed a bit."

A feathery brow raises slightly. "How?"

John chuckles and swipes a curl from Sherlock's eyes. "Since when have you ever had the urge to lay in my lap like this?" he inquires, excluding the other times shortly after their ordeal.

Sherlock abstains from replying, _all the bloody time_, shrugging his shoulders slightly instead. "Since when have you had the urge to play with my hair?"

Feeling his cheeks redden, the doctor looks away, but continues to run his fingers through that dark mess. The man in his lap gives him a rare grin and closes his eyes.

"Don't worry John, I find it oddly soothing."

John can't help but smile and lets out a breath he hadn't realised he was holding slowly. Relieved that his actions aren't unwelcome, the doctor keeps combing through those curls - brushing them away from that pale forehead, those prominent cheekbones - relishing the fact that he can _actually_ touch his friend and not feel awkward.

* * *

When Sherlock eventually opens his eyes roughly an hour later, John is still combing through his hair. The doctor doesn't move, only blinks, gaze locked on the other man's face intently, pupils blown. Sherlock blinks himself, three times in quick succession, reading so much out of his friend's expression his mind is swimming momentarily at the surplus of information. He watches closely as John licks his lips without realising it. He feels the other man's heart rate quicken along with his own, yet as the doctor's breathing quickens as well, Sherlock feels his stop. The other man hesitates slightly before a gentle hand is placed at the back of his neck, slowly lifting the detective's head up as John stretches to meet his lips somewhere in the space that _was_ between them.

The kiss is soft and chaste, and when Sherlock doesn't react for a few moments, the doctor pulls back, brow deeply furrowed. His brown eyes are perturbed, bewildered, as he draws away. The younger detective pities him as John's gaze darts anywhere but the other man's (now) deep green eyes, which are slowly filling with emotions he can't place.

As John coughs, cheeks turning a dark crimson - obviously flustered and a bit angry at himself - Sherlock raises his upper body and places a firm hand behind the doctor's neck for support. Their lips touch once more, for a few moments longer this time, mouths still closed, _still experimenting_, before he draws away, eyes searching the smaller man curiously.

A smile gradually replaces John's dumb-founded expression as he leans back in, giddy as the knowledge that his affection is mutual and not uncalled for overwhelms him.

Sherlock finds his thoughts sluggish as his mind tries to process his actions and the motives behind them, soft lips and warm skin hindering him a bit. John is a close friend. _A very close friend indeed_. One of the only people he can trust. The only person he can be himself around without the nagging fear in the back of his mind that John will take it too personally and walk out-

_"I'm married to my work." _The thought is sharp and sudden, making him physically jump. John pulls away again, eyes searching the dark-haired man carefully. _Do you want to stop?_ the brown eyes whisper fearfully, praying he hasn't crossed a line. Sherlock gazes back, mind working a bit faster now, though the lack of contact makes him feel cold.

_Married to my work. _Was that really what he was, or was that just something he said when he found himself wanting something more than this solitary life? He knew that alone was what protected him, alone was his safety blanket when everything else was chaos. But was he really as accustomed to all of that... _emptiness_ as he thought he was? John's hand is suddenly at the bend in his knee, thumb rubbing back and forth cautiously. Sherlock closes his eyes. When he was alone, when he didn't allow himself to be involved with other people, he filled the void with drugs, and nicotine, and complicated cases no one else could solve. The detective surrounded himself with dead bodies, hard facts, and mysteries, because that was who Sherlock Holmes was, and that was his comfort zone.

But was that _really_ better?

Was that _really_ where he felt safe? With the constant danger and excitement of a good game, he didn't have_ time_ for safe. Didn't need it. Safe was boring, dull. Safe made people slow, unsuspecting, _vulnerable_.

_But_ - Sherlock looks back into those dark eyes, gnawing the inside of his cheek, and tilts his head - _what was this then?_ _Here_, in their flat, sitting in John's lap nearly nose-to-nose on their couch, _he feels safe_. _But was that what he wanted? _

_Is this one man going to change his entire philosophy on life, his reasons for living, everything he held true since before adolescence?_

He looks harder into that familiar face, studying every line and shadow, searching for an answer. It takes Sherlock a moment, _hell_, it takes him a few bloody minutes of fighting and inner conflict that John can see in the detective's eyes and the twitch in his mouth, the process being painstakingly slow for both. But the answer is clear as the ice in Sherlock's gaze shatters.

Almost desperately, he presses his lips to John's, surprising the other man momentarily before a solid hand his cupping his jaw, eager now that Sherlock seems confident about what he wants. Without breaking the kiss, the detective shifts in the other man's lap, sitting with his legs on either side of the doctor, groins and chests pressing together. A small groan leaves John's mouth, making Sherlock part his lips for an instant and the fair-haired man takes advantage of the moment to swipe his tongue past those impossibly soft lips and into that hot mouth.

Brows furrowing harshly, Sherlock struggles to force back a moan of surprised pleasure but doesn't quite stop it. The other man runs a hand down his detective's thigh softly before sliding their tongues together. Sherlock responds enthusiastically, all innocence leaving the kiss now as John sucks on the taller man's bottom lip obscenely as he moves to explore John's mouth, musician's fingers playing with the hem of his jumper before sliding underneath to run them up the doctor's side, making him shiver.

After several long, intense moments of snogging and grinding against each other like teenagers, Sherlock and John part, gasping for air, foreheads flush. Gradually, brown meets green and a soft smile and a chuckle is shared between them before they settle into the quiet calm of the flat they call home.

Then, when John seems to least expect it, Sherlock mutters quietly to himself, almost unaware of the man in front of him.

"Yes," the breathless, dark-haired man murmurs, heart hammering in his chest. A quick nod, as if affirming something to himself, follows, and John watches curiously, unaware _for now_ that he's _definitely_ the man who changed it all.

* * *

Wow... I left myself wanting more, but then this would never end... so I'll dedicate the entirety of next chapter to some epic Johnlock. Alright? If you don't want that, I'll attempt to make it so you don't have to read to understand the plot. If I can't, I'll recap for you or something.

How was this chapter? Good? Decent? Did I get Sherlock's reactions and feelings and everything okay? Been trying to work on his perspective lately... but it's hard to get into his brilliant little head.

Review if you want, if not that's fine too. Stick around, I promise the Moriarty plot is fermenting in my brain and I personally think it'll be a doozy. So far I'm proud of where this will be headed (evil grin).

_Thanks for reading, lovelies, all of you are highly appreciated._


	6. Bring on the thunder

Okay, It's been over a week (_damn exams_). I could spend an hour apoligising, or I can get straight to the new chapter. Let's do option two, shall we?

First though, if you're reading this, you are what keeps me writing. All of you. I wouldn't be on chapter six without you guys. I might not have gotten past chapter one. So many thanks and cookies to go around. Thanks for all of your lovely reviews as well, you guys are MUCH too kind.

I still don't own Sherlock. But I love writing stories about him and John. If you have questions, concerns, comments, don't hesitate to let me know. Just this chapter to go, then we dive _right_ back into Moriarty's game. Hope you're ready.

**_I can't wait_** (the suspense is killing me more than it is you, I promise.) For now though, enjoy the Johnlock. Not your bag? Sorry, loves. **No regrets**, I _needed_ this. Ratings have been changed accordingly.

* * *

"You want a cuppa?" John calls into the sitting room, question aimed at Sherlock. He's once again lounging on the couch, fingers steepled under his chin, ankles crossed opposite him. Thunder booms outside, and if one would merely glance at the window, they would almost assume someone is literally throwing buckets of water against it.

_London_.

"Black, two sugars," the detective calls back, eyes closed. After a moment, and rather to his surprise, he adds a quick and quiet, "Please."

John very nearly jumps, slightly baffled - Sherlock rarely said please, even fewer times was it genuine - but ignores the urge. The detective hasn't really been himself in the general sense lately. Even different then before. And how he interacted with him... something had definitely changed. Not drastically mind you, but enough to make the doctor think a bit, re-evaluate his views on their situation. But isn't this whole process getting tiresome? Hadn't he already perused every detail of his feelings (and Sherlock's)? _Nevertheless..._

_Was he gay?_ That was the tough question. John didn't feel gay. Nothing had changed in that aspect, not really.

_Was he attracted to Sherlock Holmes? _He could confidently say that yes, yes he was. Yesterday evening's happenings on the couch had proved that.

_Did he love Sherlock Holmes? _Easy. The answer made itself known before the question was even properly formed in his mind. Yes. He absolutely did.

_Where was this relationship headed? _This one... this was the question John _really_ didn't want to think too much about, though it kept finding its way into his thought process, shouting at him whenever possible. Where were they headed now? What was going to happen?

_Oh God_, the doctor thinks, already envisioning their first major fight as a couple, the awkwardness that would ensue afterwards. Both of them avoiding each other, lashing out at little things because they couldn't get used to sharing the same space again. One of them would have to move, _and Christ_, then what-

Everything goes suddenly dark, cutting off his horrid thoughts.

"Sherlock?" he calls out cautiously, even though he knows the power must have gone out. The detective affirms this in the same bored tone he uses for nearly every situation.

"Storm blew the power, John. Just turn off the stove and come out here, we can wait it out."

* * *

James is nearly vibrating in his chair. They're so close now, _so close_, to the beginning of the game. The blackout makes it an even more perfect opportunity.

Everything is ready and dapper, but as much as he would like to move things along now, Moriarty still wants this to be as painful as possible for both John and Sherlock. More fun for him.

So he'll sit, and he'll wait in the flat just below his targets, his _playthings_, in the dark with only the wire he planted in 221 B keeping him updated. Jim has to admit, though, he's disappointed Sherlock hasn't discovered any of the cameras, nor the wire by now. But that will only make it more of a surprise, if the consulting detective is unsuspecting.

_Christ_, the suspense is **killing** him.

* * *

It takes John a moment to think that over. _"Just turn off the stove and come out here, we can wait it out." _What did that _mean_? A million and one lewd thoughts are flying through his head, and the doctor has to resort to reciting multiplication tables to himself to keep them under wraps.

As he walks out, Sherlock bends his legs at the knees and draws them up, opening a space for him. John sits down gratefully, fingers laced in his lap. They sit there in perfect silence for a few minutes, savoring each other's company. But Sherlock, one to easily get bored - especially with John right at his feet - sits up suddenly, facing John with his ankles crossed under him, legs splayed slightly, and gazes at the doctor intently. His pale eyes glow in the gloom, and the doctor feels himself drowning in them. His own dark eyes flit about trying to focus on something else, and John makes an extra effort not to stare at the way the detective's blue pyjama bottoms are stretched across his hips and groin.

A smile stretches Sherlock's lips breifly and they share a soft look, evaluating each other, _the situation at hand_. What were they going to do with all this space between them? The doctor has a short chance to run through a couple options as he turns his head to the open door across the room before a gentle hand is turning his head back to face his friend. The detective offers a wink before a short, light kiss is placed on his lips. It lasts only a moment, then Sherlock draws away, though not far.

Their faces are centimetres apart, eyes half-closed, waiting for someone to make the next move. As fate would have it, John reaches up and pulls his detective right back in, nibbling that full bottom lip slightly. Thunder rumbles outside, shaking the flat. Electricity crackles through the air intensely between them, and John feels the hairs on his arms and the back of his neck stand on end.

_'He's a virgin, you know,' _Mycroft is suddenly whispering in his head, the remnant of a rather unpleasant conversation they had after the Moriarty ordeal. Sherlock had refused to let him out of his sight - hell, the man barely let him get two inches away, holding fast to his sleeve - but the older Holmes had somehow managed to get close enough that his younger brother hadn't heard. _'_Do_ behave yourself and be _mindful_.'_

John jumps and breaks the kiss, eyes wide, and Sherlock seems to stare right through him, brows knitted. A pitiful expression sweeps across his features momentarily before the detective forces it away, and John knows Sherlock thinks he did something wrong. The smaller man offers a smirk before he sighs, cradling his detective's face in one hand, letting the pad of his thumb swipe over a perfect cheekbone.

"Have you- ah- um-" he tries to ask, and recieves a head-tilt from the other man.

"Have I what, John?" Sherlock's brows furrow even more, obviously confused.

John attempts to think over how he should phrase this type of question. "Um- well... have you ever- you know- ah..."

"Had sex?"

"I was thinking more along the lines of 'been in a relationship,' and I mean a _real_ one, 'that didn't involve a corpse' but alright."

The detective shrugs, and John almost swears he sees a faint blush spreading across those pale cheeks. "No," he rumbles quietly.

Smiling to himself, the doctor watches as the lightning outside throws intriguing shadows all over his friend, and something tightens in his lower abdomen. The urge to have this brilliant man in as many compromising situations as possible is tearing him at the seams, and slightly overwhelms him. John takes a minute to compose himself then looks into those beautiful eyes again. Like the brilliant observationist he is, Sherlock only needs a moment to see the question in them. _'Do you want this? Me?'_

Both men have had _far_ too long to think this over. Sherlock's answer is immediate and comes in the form of a hungry kiss. John easily tastes the need and responds to it hungrily. Leaving his one hand where it is - caressing that perfect face - the doctor lets the other trail to that slim waist and tugs the taller man's dress shirt out of his trousers slowly, carefully, coaxing a low, quiet moan out of him.

Eventually, John comes to the conclusion that Sherlock doesn't quite know what to do with himself. He pulls them apart and they share another look. He stands suddenly, pulling Sherlock with him. "Your room or mine?" he asks, hoping things will be easier there than on the couch.

Pale green eyes flick to the door leading upstairs, and the doctor takes that as an answer.

"Okay," he says softly and takes Sherlock's hand. "Let's go upstairs."

Sherlock follows willingly, fingers locked nearly in a death-grip with his own. John can't help but notice the detective's odd behavior and how open he's being about it. The doctor can't decide whether this is good or bad.

When they hit the hallway, John turns around, giving Sherlock one last opprotunity to safely back down. It's still dark, but he can see the excitement and want glowing in the other man's eyes, overpowering the apprehension he also finds there.

"John," the detective mumbles after a while. "Can we move this along?"

The shorter man jumps, he hadn't realised that they had been standing there for quite sometime now, Sherlock's hand still clenched in his. He had been too focused on the shadows being thrown across his friend's body, wanting every detail burned into his memory. But the prospect of an even better picture urges him to move forward. A quick once-over of the man in front of him brings him the realisation that Sherlock is suffering as much as he is.

John clears his throat. "Right. Right, Sorry."

Sherlock nods. His eyes aren't on the doctor's face, but are roaming other regions. John feels a little delighted at the fact that his best friend is checking him out.

"Right then, where were we?" he asks those full lips before they crash together again, all tongues and hands and fingers exploring as they make their way upstairs. John quickly disposes of Sherlock's satin robe, satisfyed when he hears it hit the floor. Next to go is the doctor's jumper, and the button-down underneath. He feels his face burning as he moans rather audibly into the detective's mouth as Sherlock's hands caress the bare skin of his abdomen, hears the soft chuckle leave the other man's lips. John's fingers fumble on the buttons of Sherlock's plum-coloured shirt as he reaches the landing, and (surpisingly) skilled musician's fingers come to help him. By the time they reach John's room, they're both in nothing but their trousers, panting rather heavily, foreheads pressed together. Watson can't remember the last time it felt so good to be sharing someone else's air. He's suddenly very thankful they don't have to worry about Mrs Hudson finding them later (the woman had _finally_ taken a [much needed] holiday.)

He doesn't have long to dwell in his own thoughts, however, as Sherlock takes the initiative and propels them onto the bed rather forcefully. John suddenly regrets not using the other room as they try to make do with the narrow bed, the smaller man coming to lay flat on his back with Sherlock crouching between his legs in the cramped space. But his friend (is that what he can call him now?) doesn't seem to mind, satisfyed to suck on the doctor's neck for the moment, leaving dark purple marks there. John simply obliges - for now. He wants Sherlock to find what he likes, learn what _John_ likes, on his own, at his own pace. He wants Sherlock to enjoy himself - _for once_ - without a case or corpse involved.

A hot tongue is suddenly running across his collarbone and stops at his clavicle, making an absolutely pathetic whine sound from the back of his throat. _That bastard_. He found something already. This was an absolutely new sensation - of all the women John Watson had been with over the years, not one had kissed him like this. The intamacy of the action pushes him further towards the edge. He hasn't felt like this since his first time, but he supposes this is a first - for both of them. John pushes a hand into those dark curls carefully and runs his fingers through them, eyes closed. Sherlock's hands are roaming every inch of his exposed skin, and John can see the man taking notes whenever his breath hitches in his throat.

Pale fingers stop suddenly at the waist band of his jeans. (Now) deep green eyes glance up for a moment before John offers a smile of approval. Without further hesitation, he's left in his (_dull!_) grey boxers. Sherlock rubs his bare thighs briefly, nibbling at his bottom lip. He glances up again, and the only reason the word "helpless" doesn't fly into the doctor's mind is because "_helpless_" simply isn't a word one can apply to Sherlock Holmes.

As the storm goes on outside, John sits up, then moves his friend so he's kneeling, hands braced on the blond doctor's broad shoulders. Placing burning kisses on that smooth, pale chest, John slowly pulls down the detective's black trousers and throws them across the room. He pulls Sherlock into his lap shortly afterwards, erections brushing, and both of them gasp at the contact. But it's not quite enough.

It seems like an eternity before they both struggle out of their pants, abandoning them where they land on the floor. The brilliant detective is back in his lap and John pulls them together again, and _God_, he can't remember being this hard in his life. They rut against each other distractedly like bloody teenagers before John manages to compose himself.

"Jesus, Sherlock," he murmurs, more to himself than the detective, and runs a firm hand down his spine, all the way to that perfect arse. The image of Mycroft stepping on that bloody sheet comes to mind, when Sherlock grabbed the white fabric at just the right instant, his rear peeking out, taunting him at how close his friend was to being completely naked. John would have had him right there in that damn palace, but _damn_ Mycroft for being there and ruining the moment.

But _now_ he has him. He has Sherlock right now, in his lap, in this bloody flat with no distractions. The landlady is out, there is no power, there is no case, and no one would dare go out in this weather. This is absolutely perfect.

Sherlock doesn't seem to share his sentiment though, and John is made aware of the keening noises his friend is making at the lack of movement. So the doctor shifts, dropping the taller man softly on his back on the mattress, and drapes his body over him. He gets right down next to Sherlock's ear, brushing away his dark hair, and whispers, "_Any idea what you want to do now?_"

There's a short pause before the detective's hips take a long pull forwards and back, and John sucks in a breath at the friction. It's simple friction, but it's enough. Still rubbing their dicks together, the doctor steadies himself. He's not ready for this to end, _not yet_. Sherlock's brow furrows harshly, and he places long fingers on the back of John's neck, brushing his lips along the shorter man's jawline. A lithe hand is groping down John's back and slides to his arse while another glides across his neck and shoulders in the most innocent way. Their lips meet again, Sherlock clashing their mouths together in desperation, for lack of a better term. The doctor can feel the new sensations beginning to overwhelm his partner. Sherlock's breath is hitching in his throat as his hips snap back and forth rapidly. John can feel the muscles twitching in the other man's calves and thighs, feels fingers clenching and unclenching in his hair and claw at his back. He loves every second as Sherlock's tongue invades his mouth, claiming new territory as he gets closer and closer to the finish.

To his amazement, John is reaching his own end. All it's taking is snogging and rutting against his flatmate and he's already about to bloody climax.

He lets Sherlock go at his own pace, which is becoming more erratic by the second, John's name everywhere on his lips, which is doing it's part to speed things along for the doctor as well. He loves hearing his name entwined with those lust-filled moans. He never thought he would see Sherlock like this, so... bendable (?). Was that the word he was looking for?

Christ, leave it to him to be in the middle of the best shag of his life, thinking about the right word to use to describe his best friend writhing beneath him. His eyes are slits, John can't keep his eyes off the man under him, mouth working against his, pulse hammering in his throat, eyes screwed shut, pale chest heaving. White begins to spot his vision, but he holds himself back. Sherlock is thrusting faster now, movements spasmodic. He's so close now, _so close_. John watches the detective swallow dryly in an audible gulp before a loud cry leaves his lips before he can bite it back. Dark curls splay across the sheets below them as Sherlock throws his head back as he comes, spilling on his stomach and against the doctor. John rides him through it and follows shortly after, biting his tongue, though an embarrassingly high-pitched moan manages to find its way out into the open.

When their both finished, John rolls onto his side next to his partner, and Sherlock in turn places his head on the doctor's shoulder, absentmindedly running a finger around the bullet-shaped scar he finds there. It doesn't surprise John that even after all this, the detective still manages to be as curious as usual. He tries not to flinch as a long finger explores every inch of his old wound, and eventually, he finds it soothing. In his post-orgasmic bliss, Sherlock doesn't seem to notice, too intrigued by this new piece of flesh.

Finally, a hand rests on John's chest, feeling the muscle and fair dusting of hair there. Sherlock sighs content for the moment, and the doctor manages to pull up the sheet over them without disturbing the other man too much.

"Thank you John," Sherlock finally mumbles, voice deeper than usual. A particularly loud crash of thunder sounds outside then, though neither one reacts.

John coughs and nods. "Yeah, uh- you- you too."

They lie in silence for a while, the doctor's eyelids turning heavy. He's right on the brink of sleep when he hears what he never would have dreamed come out of Sherlock Holmes' mouth - at least not without any prompting.

The usually-brash consulting detective seems almost shy, embarrassed even, but he needs to say it. He needs to say it _now_, because this has been eating at him for weeks, and the timing finally seems right. Or, at least he hopes it does. He hopes to _God_ this is the right time and it won't ruin everything that just occured.

Sherlock swallows harshly. "_I love you, John Watson_," he whispers despite himself. It shocks them both for a moment.

John had always thought he would be the first to say those three little words, and he's shell-shocked to say the least. _'I love you too, Sherlock Holmes_,' he thinks loudly and clearly, but for some reason his mouth isn't working. Instead, he rests his cheeks against that dark mess of curls, breathing in the scent of Sherlock and sweat and cold, fading adrenaline. His detective seems to understand, and isn't put off by the lack of a response to an apocalyptic admission he would never voice to anyone else. John sighs and closes his eyes, and after a long while, Sherlock goes limp in his arms. Shortly after he follows. Both are happy. Both are at peace for once in their lives.

At least for the time being.

* * *

I had a lot of trouble with this chapter, because all my brain wanted to focus on was next chapter and how I would set everything up, so if this started out slow and then flew off the wayside and was absolutely atrocious, I apoligise. At least I managed to get those two rascals in bed (together), aye?

Normally I don't beg for reviews, but feedback on how Sherlock acted and reacted would be _highly_ appreciated. Does it seem possible? Would he act this way, or does this seem ungodly out-of-character? I did a lot of John's POV, since I wasn't sure exactly what would be going through Sherlock's brilliant head at the moment... Also, I've never written a trashy story in my life. Hahaha. This is my first (shy grin). Hope it was decent.

Next chapter will be up**_ soon_**! Not in a week this time because school has finally ended!


	7. The game, has begun

Okay, so I lied unintentionally. It's been about a week... (cough, cough) I've been busy? (cough, _lazy_, cough cough) My apologies. (So here's a short chapter to hold you off until I can write a damn good one.)

We're diving into the deep end, guys. Angst, feelings, and oh-shit moments imminent. Prepare yourself for the next couple chapters, the game has begun.

Don't own Sherlock, and I love you all for sticking around and your amazing (but still too kind) reviews. Also, welcome back _Silverstar-to-Ennien_! Two weeks is a long time...

* * *

Thunder rumbles in the distance. Sherlock twitches in possibly the deepest sleep he's ever had, shivering from a mysterious draft. "John," he grumbles, beginning to come to, and buries his face in something hard and cold, eyes closed. "Did you forget to close the bloody window?"

Something isn't right, and the cogs in his brain start turning. Slowly, he opens his eyes and sits. His vision is blurry, but he can see unfamiliar shadows and outlines, illuminated at intervals by the ongoing storm. _Jesus_, how long has it been? Squinting, he checks the watch he doesn't remember putting on. It just hit midnight.

"What the hell?"

As his eyes adjust to the gloom, lines become sharper and shadows become shapes. He gets shakily to his feet and brushes his hair out of his eyes as he turns full circle, observing his location from every angle. His shoes (he doesn't remember getting fully dressed in his normal attire...) click softly against the cold concrete floor as he walks around the heavy machinery and conveyor belts, scrunitises the barricaded windows and doors, and glares up at the labyrinth of catwalks. The moon makes a vain attempt to shine through the skylights roughly nine meters (thirty feet) above him, but storm clouds quickly cover it completely. Dust swirls freely around him as he calmly stalks the perimeter of the abandoned factory.

_He should have known_. How could he not have? It was only a matter of time...

* * *

There's an annoying buzzing sound from the floor beside the bed, and a blind hand fumbles for it. Yawning, John holds the phone to his ear. "Hello?" he answers, voice clogged with the three hours of sleep he managed to get. He feels cold for a moment, and when he looks over his shoulder Sherlock isn't there. _Must have gotten up already, that man never sleeps_, he thinks absently.

"_Hi_," a familiar voice singsongs from the other line. John's blood runs cold and he can almost feel every vertebrae in his spine snap as he sits up.

"Moriarty?" he manages to spit out, incredulous. Red sparks before his eyes, but he reigns it back. "To what do I owe the _pleasure_?"

The bastard chuckles, making John's stomach churn. "Oh, John, I'm calling to help you. You see, Sherlock is in a bit of a pickle..."

The doctor chokes momentarily. "Sherlock-"

"Yes, Sherlock. Have you noticed he's not at the flat yet?" Jim asks, and John can almost see the smug grin on his face.

John leaps out of the bed and pulls on his jeans from yesterday as he runs downstairs. He looks everywhere, the sitting room, the kitchen, the detective's bedroom - but he's gone. _Sherlock is gone_.

"_Where the hell is he_?" the short, but rather menacing man demands. "Where the _bloody hell_ is he, I swear if he's hurt-!"

There's that chuckle of his. "John, you're getting ahead of yourself. Sherlock is fine," the consulting criminal soothes, and the doctor actually does feel a _tad_ better at the thought of Sherlock _safe_. Missing and _safe_ is better than missing and _dying_ - or worse, _dead_. "I **do** promise you he's safe, John. _For now at least_."

"What the hell do you mean 'for now'?"

There's a long pause, and John imagines Moriarty pacing wherever the hell he is, all pompous and pleased with himself, staring at his smart shoes as they click on the floor. John's ears prick and his attention is suddenly recaptured as the other man begins talking again.

"As you might have guessed, this is a game. And, at least in _my_ opinion, this is the best game you will ever play." John snorts derisively, but Jim continues. "You see, I have your little 'genius' locked up with nowhere to go, and you, _my dear friend_, have to find him before the clock runs out." Dark eyes widening, the doctor feels bile rising in the back of his throat. _No_. He can't play this game. _Not like this_. This is Sherlock's area, _not his_.

"_Ninety minutes_," Moriarty sings in that god-awful voice. "Ninety minutes to find Sherlock. And big brother Mycroft can't save you now, all of London is out of power. But, I _will_ give you a tiny bit of help, John. I know as well as anyone you can't figure it out on your own."

No. _No no no_-

"You can use any means you wish to find him, _however_, there are three rules. I like to stay consistent, you know," he adds. John growls low and long into the phone before the bastard goes on. "One, get a _single_ thing wrong and the game is over. Two, no one can get Sherlock for you - because _God knows_ Lestrade will want to take over, or maybe even the Ice Man will too, if he finds out. Three, _if_ you find out where Sherlock is, you **must** come _alone_ and _unarmed_. I will be waiting there for you to arrive."

John feels his heart hammering in his chest (or is that his throat?), though he tries to remain calm. Panicking is going to help nothing.

"Well, good luck to you John. The game will officially begin when Sherlock comes to. Don't bother starting before the countdown, I have men watching your flat. And remember, go over the ninety minutes, or screw up, Sherlock dies."

The doctor opens his mouth to scream something - though he doesn't quite know what - but the call ends before he can.

* * *

Climbing the narrow metal stairs to the main catwalk, Sherlock rubs his arms, caressing the black material covering them. Even though the thought of his thugs - or worse, Moriarty himself - touching his coat makes him cringe, the detective wishes someone would have had the mind to at least bring it along. Bright blue eyes search every crevice as he climbs before they land on a sheet of paper tucked into a power box about four and a half meters (roughly fifteen feet) to his right. As he approaches, he begins to look around his surroundings more closely, in case there are other notes scattered about.

There are none. (At least that he can see from here.)

He opens the note. All that is inside, scrawled in spidery handwriting, is "Call me" and a number. Inside the power box lies a plain, prepaid cellphone. So he calls.

Sherlock shoves a hand inside his pocket as the voice he was expecting to hear comes onto the line.

"Sherlock! I've been expecting your call! Awake are you? How did you sleep?"

"Rather well, thank you," the detective replies, and begins a slow walk around the suspended metal walkways.

Jim snickers. "Good, good. Anyway, down to business. I see you've found the phone-"

"Obviously."

"-which is just brilliant. Because you'll have to find the others so John can find you. Or, well, to _prevent_ John from finding you..."

This gains his proper attention. _John is supposed to find me? _"Why would I want to prevent him?"

Another snicker. "You see, John has ninety minutes to find you before one of you dies. If the good doctor doesn't get to you in time, _you_ meet your end. _Well_, that's at least what I _told_ him. In all actuality, if he shows up to save you, _he_ dies. He doesn't know of course, but isn't that the beauty of it? Because he _will_ come. And then what will you do... _Sherlock_?" That Irish lilt suddenly rises in a manic laugh. "The game starts now. Hope you're ready."

* * *

New chapter coming out ASAP. No promises about time, just know I'm not giving this one up.

I REGRET _NOTHING_!

By the way, I got the conversions about right, _right_? Ah, and I realise this was REALLY short. But that's because the next chapter is going to be long. Like, _long_. The longest chapter yet and will contain the entire game, since this one was basically setting everything up. Plus, I can plan everything even more! Aha, all the evil I can generate now... (manic grin)


	8. No light, no light

I know it's been a while, but again, Moriarty's whole game is in this chapter. Hope you enjoy and as always, thanks for sticking around and your amazing reviews.

My goal for this chapter is to make it as awesome as possible. Also as realistic and suspenseful and a little mind-boggling, _**if **_I can manage. All I have is a map of London (that I probably _won't_ use [cough cough]) and a cuppa (or _ten_) to help me along this journey. Not to mention youtube for music. Wish me luck!

By the way, all times are estimated (approximated?)... so... _yeah_...

(_Sherlock, why must you be such a bamf... [John, you too!]? I can't channel all of your awesome into my stories, you need to tone it down a bit_ [fan-girl swoon])

* * *

Sherlock frowns as the call ends. This is rather disturbing. He throws the now-useless phone across the building in a blind flash of fury, not at Moriarty, but at himself. It was he who let his guard down and allowed this entire situation to even happen. If he had been more alert, if he hadn't fallen asleep, John wouldn't be in danger. He should have focused on catching that bastard weeks ago, but he had been so relieved to have his doctor back, he was too afraid to bring Moriarty back into the picture.

Hm. _Afraid_. A word he never thought he would use for himself. But that's what he was right now. That's how he felt weeks ago, when John went missing, what he had felt (very) few times before, and what he was sure John was feeling right now.

He has to find another phone. He assumes they'll all be the same. Dull, prepaid, with under a minute of time left on them. There should be about nineteen, maybe twenty including the phone he just used. After all, what better way to create a great game than to remake a good one?

* * *

John is just lacing his shoes when his cellular goes off. He almost trips to answer it, but it's only a text. Three words.

Ninety minutes, John.

Jim xoxo

The doctor sprints down the stairs, grabbing his and Sherlock's coat on the way, and pulls his on. The streets are empty, there's no one and nothing in sight. It's still raining buckets, and he quickly tucks his detective's long coat inside his jacket under his arm. He turns up his coat collar and zips it before he begins to run down the sidewalk. There are no street lights, no moon, no stars, and he's blind momentarily before his eyes have the chance to adjust. The never-ending black of night - mixed with the power outage and the storm - fades to a dark grey, and John can now see shadows as he flies down the street, urgency pushing him forward against the protesting wind. He has to get to the Yard. If they have any brains at all, they'll still be stuck there - no one would be crazy enough to drive home in _this_ weather. Maybe there'll be something there to help him, Lestrade should definately know what to do, he can send men out with him and they can search the city. With all of them looking for clues as to Sherlock's whereabouts maybe John _can_ find him in time. Maybe he can even call Mycroft, he's just as smart as Sherlock, _surely_ he can offer some form of assistance.

By the time he slams open the door and dashes inside the building, he's soaked to the bone and dripping water pools at his feet. He unzips his jacket and pulls out Sherlock's coat, which managed to only be _slightly_ damp, and walks purposefully to Lestrade's office. Water streams down his face and into his eyes, but he simply blinks it away. He itches all over from the rain, but he ignores that too, only really paying attention to just how wet he is when the door knob separating him from help refuses to turn. John finally resorts to using his coat sleeve and after a few minutes manages to shove open the door.

It's dark, like the rest of the building - hell, the rest of the city - and John begins to wonder if anyone anywhere happens to have a back-up generator. Someone should...

Candles flicker on his desk as he reads an unmarked novel, but brown eyes soon look up and widen at the sight of the doctor.

"John?" Lestrade asks, slightly startled by the dripping figure. He rushes to his feet and closes his book.

John wants to start talking a mile a minute, but he forces himself to take a moment to collect his thoughts (he can't afford to mess anything up), looking around the office for the time being.

The detective inspector notices the action and gestures to the lights. "Our generator blew out. Pretty much like everyone else's..." he tries to explain before John shakes his head wildly, sending water droplets flying.

"Just, I don't care about the power," the doctor rushes, raising a hand to the other man. "Look, we only have a short amount of time. Moriarty has Sherlock and I only have," he checks his watch, "seventy-three minutes to find out where he is. I don't know about you, but I don't want to waste the hour I have left, gather everybody up." Christ, an hour and seven minutes to find his friend in the entire fucking city of London. _Fuck me... _He does count the minor blessing that it only took just over twenty minutes to get to the yard. Now if they can get some actual work accomplished...

* * *

Frustrated grey eyes flash as his fingers feel under pieces of machinery and inside crevices for anything resembling a cell phone. He needs to call John, he needs to know what is going on outside. He assumes the doctor is at the Yard right now, talking Lestrade into sending his men out to look or him.

After an eternity, something cold and smooth brushes his fingertips - and it's not metal. Grabbing the phone wildly, he pulls it out from its hiding place. As he flips it open, he notices a text.

Did I mention you can't tell John about the twist?

Jim

_Damn_. Nevertheless, he dials John's number and waits. It rings once, twice, three times before a familiar voice that sounds a little too tight and high-pitched to be calm is on the line.

"Hello?"

"John, it's Sherlock. Where are you?"

The doctor doesn't hesitate, but rambles slightly, obviously stressed. "Sherlock! Oh god, are you alright? I'm at the yard with Lestrade, he's getting everyone together - _Jesus_, do you have any idea where you are? I've been worried sick-"

"John," the detective says, and there's something in his voice that makes the other man ceize all noise. Sherlock doubts he's even breathing. "I'm fine, and I'm in some sort of abandoned factory. It's completely barricaded and dark because of the storm."

"Jesus Sherlock, I have no idea what to do-"

Sherlock can't help but cut him off again. "John, everything is going to be fine. We only have a short time though. Let me think, and I'll call you back in a few minutes, alright?"

There's a long pause, exchanging looks with the detective inspector no doubt, before the doctor replies. "Alright Sherlock, but hurry it up. We have an hour." At this, John seems to swallow painfully, and something about it pulls at the detective's heartstrings. Well, _if_ he has a heart. He's been reliably informed that he doesn't, but in light of recent events-

"Just- just don't... don't..." John suddenly says, and even though he can't find the words, or perhaps the means to say them, Sherlock understands perfectly.

"I know John. Will do. I'll ring you in a bit."

* * *

Lestrade's eyes meet his and John sighs as he hangs up.

"He says he's going to think, then he'll call us back."

The other man nods before he goes to walk out the door - they're still in his office - but suddenly he stops. He turns and seems to look a little closer at John, frowning slightly. A hand flies up to his neck for a second before he makes a vague gesture at the doctor's. "Uh, John... I think you have a little..." he makes a motion with his fingers and John reaches up to his own neck. "Other side," Lestrade says. "What is that?"

John frowns heavily. Why is this so important? Why is Greg suddenly so interested about what may or may not be-

"Oh," he huffs as his fingers find their way over the purple blotch Sherlock left there last night.

Lestrade nods. "Yeah, that. Is that a... Were you out with the girlfriend last night?"

The doctor propells himself forward, out of the candle light, and pushes past the other man. He walks purposefully down the hallway, towards the faint sound of voices across the building. Lestrade follows on his heels and John snaps quietly. "Can we just focus on getting Sherlock back? We have just under an hour."

"So it didn't go well, huh? Were you at her place? That how they got Sherlock?"

A grimace. "No, I was at home."

There's a short pause, and John almost thinks he's given up. "So did Sherlock hear?"

John snorts, quickly getting fed up. "Of course he did. But there was no girlfriend."

By this point they've reached the door separating them from the others, but before the doctor can open it, Lestrade grabs his arm, slowly connecting the dots.

His voice drops to a low murmur. "So... you and _Sherlock_?"

John meets his eyes for a few long moments, fingers rubbing the mark briefly before he nods and opens the door. Greg is silent as they walk inside. _This is going to be a long night_.

* * *

Sherlock paces around his prison like a caged animal, mind racing out of control. No scuffs on his shoes, he was carried not dragged; his coat smells like smoke, but not cigarettes a cigar, and of the flat - of him. Inwardly, he misses the scent of John that usually mingles there. His hair and clothes are damp, so he was carried from the car through the heavy rain and into the building. Not a large building, but big enough that anything or anyone could be hidden easily. By simple common sense, Sherlock knows it's not over twenty minutes from the flat, given the short amount of time they have, which narrows it down drastically. Based on the footprints tracked in by Moriarty's men, he's still near the urban part of London. The tracks are wet, with tiny bits of gravel and asphalt scattered about, but no mud or grass. The map in his mind gets smaller and smaller. He doesn't hear any sign of life outside, but he can't count that, no one is out in this. It's been storming for over three hours. He needs to know how hard it's storming where John is, the wind speed and direction, little things he could find out for himself if he could see out a bloody window! He needs to find another phone, the one he has is out of time. He needs to call John.

Keen eyes scour the catwalks above him and he realises there are doors leading elsewhere. Damn, how could he have been so blind! This place is much bigger than he had originaly anticipated. He climbs up with gusto and tries a door. Locked. Tries another. Locked. Tries another. Third time's the charm. The consulting detective has to jiggle the knob a bit, but he manages to bully it open with a creak. Then he sees it out of the corner of his eye. Something glimmers on the ground at his feet in front of the door. _Tripwire_.

Looking more carefully about, he eases the door open just enough to slip through and over the wire. Upon closer inspection, he sees the wire is rigged to a pistol across the room, sitting menacingly at eye level. _Ah, that tricky bastard_. Sherlock takes a moment to disarm the trap, and slips the gun into the waistband of his trousers, shivering as the cold metal brushes against his spine. He blinks, unaccostomed to this new light. The door is the only source, dust swirling in the beams. Slowly, a corridor appears, and Sherlock follows it. Cautiously, of course. Yet, he encounters little else before he comes across two other doors at the end of the narrow hallway. One to his left, unmarked, dull and grey. Brass knob, though it's hard to tell in this gloom. The door is three and a quarter meters behind him and the light is dim. The door to his right still bears its natural wood, and has a silver coloured handle. Both are unlocked.

A dizzying analytical process begins in his mind. Does he take the left or the right? Deep green eyes flick between the two wildly, twitching and narrowing as he thinks. Could they be rigged, like the other? Will there be any light at all? What will the dangers be? Is this going to be like a maze? Does Moriarty expect him to wander around this place like the men in the minotaur's labyrinth? Is there a right and wrong door?

_Oh, he's good, _Sherlock thinks, chuckling. If nothing else, if he has no other blessings to count, he can count this one. He's definately not _bored_.

* * *

If anyone notices what Greg had, no one says anything about it.

John sighs as Anderson makes another snide comment about his detective, though.

"Will you just shut it," he half-yells, irritated and on edge. His mind is working in overdrive, and he wonders if this is how Sherlock feels all the time, the way his brain works. The doctor checks his watch for the umptenth time since he got off the phone with Sherlock. They have barly forty minutes left and they've gotten nowhere. Several hunches based on what Sherlock said about being in a factory, but nothing solid. Moriarty's voice still rings in his ears. _'...get a single thing wrong and the game is over.'_

"Like I said before," John says, head propped on his hand, elbow resting on the edge of the table in front of him, "it can't be far or else I'd automatically lose. Moriarty knows it'll probably take me up until the very end to figure it all out, so I'd say he can't be anywhere over fifteen or twenty minutes away." _Which leaves about twenty minutes to figure out where the bloody hell that _is.

Anderson snorts - of course he's one of the people here, now. John almost wishes he would have risked the ride home in the mess outside. He still hasn't forgiven the _dick_ for his comment to Sherlock the other day. "You said he would call in a bit to help us out. Well we still have nothing but a factory of some sort that's no more than twenty minutes away. We have _nothing_ and he still hasn't phoned." John opens his mouth to retort, but he's soon cut off. "Are you sure he just isn't playing games to get attention? I mean, you say you woke up and he wasn't there. If someone had come and gotten him, don't you think you would have heard a struggle? Everyone knows the _Freak_ doesn't sleep-"

"Say that again," the doctor suddenly threatens, fed up and quickly losing all patience with everything.

Anderson looks mildly shocked. "Excuse me?"

A smile quirks his lips. "You heard me just fine. Say that again." John leans forward in his chair, elbows propped on the desk, fingers laced in front of his chin.

"Say what?"

A chuckle comes from the back of his throat. Breathy. Menacing. "Call him a freak again, _Anderson_, and I'll do to you what I did to those bastards in Afghanistan who killed my friends."

He recieves an incredulous look from everyone, save Lestrade, who simply gives him a scolding glance.

"Is that a threat?"

John savors his change in pitch. Minor, but noticable. "You know damn well it isn't. _It's a promise_. Sherlock was right, you _are_ a moron." There's suddenly a muffled vibration coming from his pocket. "Not that I couldn't have figured that out on my own." He looks at the number. Private call. "Now _excuse me_, that'll be him."

* * *

He had decided to take the right, which opened up to reveal a quaint little office. It housed a desk, a couple pictures and trinkets, and a device hooked to yet another wire that when triggered lit a match to a fuse that lead to a few cans of gasoline. How trite.

_It's almost as if he _wants_ me to think he's being a spectacular moron..._

But, it is in _here_, in a locked drawer of a reinforced, fire-proof filing cabinet, that he finds another phone. The key he finds inside the chair behind the desk. It takes him a minute or two, but he manages to finally phone John as he walks back out into the corridor and tries the left door. If there's another wire, he actually might let it go off, this is so _boring_.

But there is none. He frowns, though it quickly fades away when he hears John's voice.

"Sherlock? What took you so long? Is everything okay? Have you figured anything else out?"

The dark-haired man suddenly spots a tile that's slightly uneven next to the others. Pressure plate? "Yes, everything's dapper." Cautiously, he reaches out a foot and taps it. Once, twice. He adds a little more pressure, and suddenly a jet of flame appears above his leg. Ah. Brilliant. A little expected and unimaginative, but _brilliant_. If you'll excuse the sarcasm for a moment.

"Good, good. Sherlock, we don't have long, do you have anything we could possibly go on?"

Sherlock checks how much time is left on the phone. He's surprised to see that there happens to be just under ten minutes on this one. He checks the floor around the tile, eyes straining in the lack of light. There seems to be nothing, but one can never _really_ rely on that. He takes a moment to think. He can't let John know where he is, _he can't_. But _he_ has to figure out just where he is. John is smart, _he really is_, and eventually he'll find the right path on his own. If he even begins to get on the right scent, Sherlock needs to lead him astray. Or at least explain the situation to Lestrade without telling the doctor.

"Can you get back to the flat?" he asks, edging his way into this new territory, just shy of that crucial tile. Still nothing. He shuts the door behind him, cutting off the last of the light, and faint arrows suddenly appear in glow-in-the dark paint. There's also that damn smile face Moriarty is so fond of.

John seems to stutter. "Um, well, probably. If someone's stupid enough to go out."

Sherlock chuckles. "It doesn't always take stupidity, John. Sometimes it just takes bravery and a hunger to find the right answer. There are clues there, John, and I need you to find them."

There are a few muffles voices, John is obviously discussing the matter with his hand over the speaker. For a moment Sherlock thinks he hears Anderson's annoying voice before John silences it. Finally, the hand is removed. "Uh, Greg and I will be there in a few minutes. Do you want to call back in say, ten?"

"That's perfect, thank you John." He goes to hang up, but before he flips the phone shut, he finds himself, not entirely of his own will, whispering into the phone. "_John, please do be careful_. ...Oh, and if you could, note the rainfall, wind speed, direction, cloud cover, anything and everything. Tell me when I call back. And just. Be careful."

* * *

John finds the means to smile softly as his detective hangs up. "Alright, let's head out," he says to Lestrade, who nods and walks towards the door. Anderson snorts derisively, but says nothing. Smart man. _For once_.

"We'll take my car!" Lestrade shouts mildly over the storm as they arrive outside. John is a bit apprehensive about being in a car in this rain, and he can't even begin to worry about how slick the roads are, but he also knows time is of the essence.

"Alright," he replies simply, turning up his coat collar, clutching Sherlock's longcoat to his chest protectively. He's taking notes on everything, just like Sherlock asked, and he only hopes he doesn't forget anything.

Greg unlocks the doors and they both throw themselves in. Shivering slighly - he still hasn't completely dried from his run here - he stares outside. Or he tries too. Rain is still coming down in buckets, to his _amazement_, and the view of the outside world is completely obscured. The car starts, and Lestrade switches on the wipers and the brights before pulling onto the street.

John was right, the roads are ungodly slick as Lestrade speeds down them much faster than he should, but then again, the doctor can feel the urgency filling the air. You could almost cut it with a knife as they whip around corners, sliding dangerously. Thank God no one else it on he road. No one's that stupid. _No one is this desperate_.

_'I love you, John Watson...'_ Sherlock is suddenly whispering to him. John jumps, eyes widening considerably as something hits him like a bullet.

_He never told Sherlock he loved him. _

_Oh_, _God_...

He starts fumbling in his pockets for his keys, but he can barely remember if he even bothered to lock the flat before he left. John strains to see anything at all as Greg suddenly comes to a stop.

"We're here, let's go John, hurry up," he says, already halfway out of the car.

John doesn't need to be told twice.

* * *

He follows the arrows around a spectacular array of booby traps, each getting increasingly more creative than the last. One is actually rigged to a pile of C-4. Spectacular, this game. Again, a bit unimaginative, but maybe that's the point.

Checking his watch, Sherlock notices it's been about eight minutes. Two more.

He's made it down another corridor, and now he's met with three doors side by side. Just how big _is_ this place? All dark hallways, windowless, dreadful. The smell of oil and rust and disinfectant clog his senses.

Ah. _Disinfectant_. One of these may be a janitor's closet. But what does that mean? Where do the other two lead and what is the point of all this? _Nine minutes_. He wonders briefly if Moriarty is enjoying the thought of him running around this maze like a lab rat. He chooses the middle door - each are identical - and peers inside. A candle burns at the opposite end of the room. It happens to be filled with bleach and cleaners on rickety metal shelves. Okay. He closes the door and opens the one to the right. Nothing but a brick wall. Brilliant. The left is next, and opens to reveal a room identical to the one he woke up in, but darker, and almost labyrinthine. There is a penlight lying just in front of the door. He ignores it and the wire attatched to it and strides forward onto the catwalk, senses at attention for any other mindless traps.

_Ten_. He flips open the prepaid phone and calls John.

"Yeah, hey Sherlock," John answers, seemingly distracted. Sherlock hears rusting and a muffled voice. Lestrade.

"So you're at the flat?"

There's a breif pause. "Yeah, just got in. By the way, rain is coming down in buckets, still no power anywhere, cloud cover is complete - the sky is absolutely black, but a bit purple on the horizon, grey-ish towards the west, like it's letting up a bit. Wind is blowing somewhere around forty-seven kph, towards the south, south-west."

A map appears in Sherlock's mind - the one from before - and it narrows further. He's down to three possible locations. "Good, now what's at the flat?" I've almost got it figured out, he adds silently, suddenly on pins and needles.

All stress goes out of John's tone, all business now as he has a look around. "Uh, looks like tracks. Faint though, probably dried and were ground into the floor. Mrs Hudson is going to be in fits if they've ruined her carpet," he murmurs. "I see bits of grass and muck, but mainly tiny specks of what looks like gravel or asphalt. Um..." there's a short pause here, "smells like rain water and... Oil? Yeah. Like they use in those big factories."

_Ah, so they were at this place before they went to get me... Brilliant._

"Right, what else?"

Footsteps, John's walking about now. Sherlock does as well, half his attention on the phone, the other half on his surroundings. So far, nothing. Just machines, switches, nothing unusual or spectacular.

"The tracks lead to your room, I don't know how I didn't notice them before..." the doctor says, sounding at a loss with himself.

"Probably because you were in a panic and there weren't any lights," Sherlock hears Lestrade say over the phone, slightly muffled.

Sherlock sighs. "John, stay focused."

"Right, sorry. Ah, looks like they raided your drawers and closet... then they turned tail and went upstairs." The doctor seems to be thinking hard, as if a revelation is taking place. He seems to be holding his breath, and the detective doesn't like that. He wonders what set off this sudden train of thought.

"John, what do you see?"

There's a long pause, followed by more rustling. "It's not what I see, it's what I _don't_..."

"What?"

There's a mild thump, and other odds and ends noises. "Your phone."

Sherlock frowns, halting mid-step. "What about it?"

"It's not here."

_Odd. _"It should be. I don't have it." Something flashes in the distance, catching his attention. _What is _that_?_

There's a click and the sound of keys being hit. "Oh good, full battery."

"John, what are you doing?" Sherlock hears his voice rise an octave, and he bites his tongue.

More typing, followed by soft mumbling as the doctor talks to himself. "Greg can I see your phone? ...Thanks."

There's a mild feeling of dread as Sherlock looks towards the light again. Suddenly, something rings from the same direction. "My... my phone...?" he stutters, slightly bewildered. He hadn't seen that one coming.

He can almost see the triumphant smile on John's face as the typing resumes. "I was right, good. Now I just need to... _okay_... name, number... pass... word..."

"John?" he asks again as the ringing stops. He can hear Lestrade murmur a thanks, and he sounds mildly confused.

"Right, got it," the doctor says in a rush, then there's a click as the laptop it closed. "Sherlock, I'll be right there. Don't move." Another click and the call ends.

_Oh bloody **hell**_.

Sherlock runs across the catwalk, towards the last place he saw the light, cursing under his breath. John figured it out and now he's on his way to certain death, all because he never bothered to stop him in time. Damn Moriarty. Damn the bastard in Afghanistan that shot John and sent him home. Damn the country for the size of his pension, making him seek out a flatmate. Damn Mike for being friends with John and recognising him in the street. Damn Mike for introducing him to John. Damn the flat for looking as good as it did, and damn John for being so bloody-

...Just what _is _John? _Patient_? _Easy-going_? _Amazing_? _Fantastic_? God, why can't he think of a word that suits him appropriately?

But damn John for just being John, and not running in the opposite direction after he spent one minute in the same room with him.

He sees the phone now, just below him. Sherlock slips under the bars of the walk and drops onto the conveyer belt two meters below him. He lands lightly, though he winces just the same. He hops the remaining meter to the ground and looks about. His phone flashes and Sherlock grabs it, quickly dialing a number he's never necessarily called before.

"Hello?"

"Lestrade, where's John?"

A pause. "He left to find you. He pulled up a site and activated the GPS in your phone once he realised it was there with you."

Sherlock begins to feel a low growl in his throat. "Why aren't you with him?"

"He said he needed to go alone. It's about fifteen minutes away and he seemed pretty frantic. He told me to stay here... and well... if you would have seen the look on his face-"

"Do you know where I am?"

This seems to throw the detective inspector off guard. "Well yeah."

The consulting detective sighs heavily and he begins to pace back and forth. That would leave them right at the end of the clock. "Lestrade, I need you to come here now-"

"Well I was going to gather some of the boys and come along anyway-" Greg tries to interrupt, before he's interrupted himself.

"No, don't go back, don't call anyone, just get here as quickly as you can! Can you find your way?"

"Sherlock-"

"Lestrade!" Sherlock snaps. "I need you to do this for me!"

"Well, Sher-"

"Lestrade? _Lestrade_!" he calls into the phone, but it's no use. The storm outside blew the signal. Damn it all. What is he going to do _now_?

* * *

Sherlock's ears prick as he hears a door slam open, followed by the sound of rain water. Automated door. Opened for someone. _John_.

He rises from his spot on the floor and waits. It's not long before he sees a blond head bobbing along in the gloom, searching the place apprehensively. It's only now that Sherlock realises that with his dark hair and clothes he must be nearly invisible. The doctor does manage to see him, his attention gained when the detective clasps his hands behind his back, in a very Mycroft-like manner.

John doesn't hesitate to run over, eyes wide, mouth open as he tries to get back lost oxygen from the obvious run over. Sherlock doesn't move, trying to distance himself, reinstate that feeling of alone before the worst happens. He has a plan, of course, and it _may_ work, but nothing is guaranteed in this life besides death and taxes. He might as well prepare himself, though it tears through him like a knife as he tries to gain his composure. He's prepared himself for this while John was making his way here. He's had plenty of time to resign-

Then the doctor hugs him, coat and hair dripping. His skin is cold, almost as cold as his own, and even with all the rain Sherlock can still detect John's familiar scent. He's amazed it hadn't been washed away.

"Sherlock... just... _Jesus_," the shorter man whispers, and Sherlock feels his resolve shatter. How could he have _possibly_ accepted the fact that Moriarty was going to take his John away from him? He feels guilty, and his cheeks redden as his arms encircle his friend (but he's so much more) tightly. No one is going to take John away from him. **No one**. He'll die first.

Right on cue, shoes are clicking across the dark room, followed by that damned Irish lilt.

"Hello, boys. John, I see you've made it."

Sherlock feels John tense before the doctor backs away to face the source of the voice at the edge of the room. Sherlock feels himself bristle and sidesteps a little closer to his friend.

Moriarty grins. "Ah, John... You'll do anything for him won't you?"

John doesn't answer.

"Would you die for him?" Jim asks.

This time there's no verbal reply, but the criminal mastermind does receive a brisk nod. Sherlock is filled with horror at the action, his hands re-clasping behind his back, feeling a crucial something there as he waits.

Another grin. "That's good, John. Because it's here that you'll meet your end so Sherlock can walk away."

_Now._

Sherlock's fingers grasp something and pull it out of his waistband, aiming directly at Jame's heart as the other man pulls out his own pistol, lining up with John's forehead. John himself stands stock-still, yet he doesn't look afraid. Slightly bewildered, but unafraid.

Moriarty tuts softly. "Oh, Sherlock," he croons as his trigger-finger twitches ever-so-slightly. The detective fires on instinct, but there's only a dull click. _Damn_. "Sherlock, I'm surprised. One, you thought I would leave a loaded gun where you could attain it easily? And two, you didn't even check to see if it was loaded? Wow... it was a nice try though. Too bad it didn't work, because now you have to watch your boyfriend die right in front of you."

That crucial finger twitches again. Everything instantly slows down. Sherlock sees John jump as the shot is fired, his eyes flicking towards the detective. No. This isn't going to happen. Not like this, _not now_, after everything.

His body leaps into motion, pushing John behind him as he throws himself between the doctor and Moriarty, face towards his best mate. He prepares himself for the incredible pain that comes from being shot, the whole scene forming in his mind before it happens.

_The bullet hits him just a few centimeters to the right of his spine. Pierces a lung. He gasps his last few breaths as he falls to the ground, John's stricken face being the last thing he sees. Then, nothing..._

He blinks for a moment, waiting for that blooming pain, _the blood_, _the drama_, utterly at peace with himself and the world. John _will_ live. No one will hurt him.

**He'll die first**.

* * *

Oh shit, cliffhanger... Sorry guys.

Okay, just next chapter and the story ends! I was thinking of going for ten chapters, but I think nine is enough for now...

And you have no idea how excited I was when I broke six thousand words! Ah, and see any mistakes, you don't like something, something doesn't make sense, I need to explain more, **_let me know_**! I appreciate the feedback!


	9. Bulletproof

OKAY I'M UPDATING UPDATING UPDATING!

Aha, reviews...

Well, I already have the first half of this story planned out in my head. Loosely, but planned out. So hopefully it's decent.

Thanks for sticking around, or thanks for popping in, and thanks for your reviews! I love you guys...

* * *

Sherlock's eyes are clenched shut as he hears that dull thud. They both fall, John and him, and hit the concrete hard. There's another noise as something else hits the floor and a voice calls in the distance.

"_Sherlock_! _John_!"

Something's wrong. Well, something didn't go as planned. His eyes flash open to see John gazing at him, bewildered. Sherlock looks down at his torso. No blood, no bullet. Nothing. His doctor grabs him by the lapel and pulls him up. The detective sees those dark brown eyes flash and he knows he's in for it later.

"_Sherlock-John_!" It's Lestrade now, calling their names, almost as if they're one. They both turn towards the detective inspector, each a tad shocked to see him. Sherlock can see that his doctor is feeling numb, and for a moment he does too. Moriarty's corpse lies on the ground before them. "Are you boys all right?"

Long musician's fingers feel that spot on his torso subconsciously for a moment as he looks back and forth between John and Lestrade. "Yes... um... nice work, Lestrade," he murmurs. _I'd almost forgotten you'd come_, he thinks, disgusted with himself. Sherlock shakes his head, embarrassed that he seems to be losing his edge. At least when John is in danger.

The detective inspector chuckles. "I might have expected a thank you, but _then again_ I know you too well, Sherlock. Your welcome," he says, just as John says thank you. Sirens are sounding in the distance, and soon enough the factory is going to be swarming. For the next few minutes the trio stands in mutual silence, John glaring every couple seconds at Sherlock. The detective is back to his usual self, standing stock-still, eyes narrowed, lips pursed in his (pretty much) omnipresent frown. His wall has been put up, standing tall and oppressing between him and the other two. John and Greg don't make an attempt to get through to him - no one can. Not while he's like this.

John reaches wildly for his coat out of nowhere, making Lestrade jump. Sherlock doesn't respond, but watches out of the corner of his eye as the doctor unzips the coat and pulls something familiar out of its confines. The detective turns now, head tilted as he waits. John unfolds the fabric and holds it up. "Almost forgot," he says so softly it's almost a whisper, and Sherlock takes his long coat softly from his grasp. The detective pulls it on and turns up the collar, breathing it in - along with John's scent and warmth - oblivious to its mild dampness. He shoves his pale hands into the pockets, content for the moment.

"Well well well," Anderson suddenly calls from the gloom. A dark silhouette is slowly forming into a human being, sharply outlined by Donovan's flashlight behind him. "John, I see you found your boyfriend."

Sherlock glances over in time to see the doctor's brow furrow heavily. There's fire in his eyes as he looks to the bastard, but his tone is tame. "**He's not my boyfriend**," he says, and for a moment the detective feels... odd (?). But John gazes up at him, and beneath all the anger (wherever _that_ came from) is a tender look. '_Yet'_, he can practically hear John think as the very corner of his lips twitch upwards. Sherlock is smiling to himself as he walks past the crowd and towards the lessening rain. He would rather explain everything outside, and leave this place behind him. He offers a passing glance at Moriarty's body as he makes his way out. The consulting criminal smiles at him out of the corner of his eye.

He stops in his tracks, backtracks a few paces, and kneels next to the body. No smile. Just shocked eyes and a surprised "o" for a mouth. An ugly bullet hole gapes at him somewhere around Moriarty's heart. His skin is already starting to pale. Satisfyed, Sherlock stands and strides for the door, yet he can't shake that cold feeling. He hears Lestrade and John begin to follow after him and he sighs. No chance of relaxation tonight.

* * *

"What the_ hell_ was _that_!" John demands as soon as the door is closed safely behind them.

Sherlock ignores him for the most part, taking his time to hang up his coat and pace around the flat. "What the hell was what?" he asks calmly, in the very way that gets on the doctor's nerves the most.

He watches as John's face slowly changes from pale to red. "That move back there! At the factory!"

The detective tilts his head.

John is reaching his last nerve, the taller man can tell, but he would rather have John get everything out now. "When you jumped in front of me to take that bullet! What the hell was that!"

"_John_-"

"Oh don't '_John_' me! You were going to _kill_ yourself-!"

"To save you!" Sherlock suddenly yells, frustrated and fried - it's been a long night for both of them.

"_Save me_-? **_Jesus_**, Sherlock! Sometimes I can't **bloody** believe you-!"

Sherlock grits his teeth and crosses the space between them, skin practically burning in a chemical reaction of emotions. "What did you expect me to do? Just let you _die_? Oh John, you _really_ need to use that brain of yours, _I know you have one_."

"Well you didn't have to be such an idiot like that!" John spits out after a moment, still furious.

A chuckle leaves Sherlock's lips, and the doctor looks confused for a moment. "Oh, John. _I'm_ an idiot? Can't you see-?" He shakes his head suddenly, cutting himself off. He turns away now, still smiling wryly. "Have you forgotten everything that's occured between us?" the detective asks, voice dangerously soft.

He sees John's jaw tense, those intriguing brown eyes narrow. "I see, so I go through all that, then you just get shot and die right in front of me when I can't do anything about it?"

The dark haired man has to close his eyes and take a deep breath. "You moron. You could have moved on. _In time_," he adds as the other man gives him a murderous look. "But **me** - John, you have no _idea_..."

"Oh, I have no idea about **_what_**?"

Another chuckle escapes him. "John, can't you see how much you mean to me?"

His body is betraying him yet again. Sherlock can hear his voice break, almost a whisper. Images of John's death and life without him flash before his eyes - just as they had when Moriarty took him - making his throat tighten and his mouth dry. At the mere thought of what he would possibly do (_no matter what he tries to tell himself to make him believe he would be fine, he knows he wouldn't last, not really_) if such an event occurred, tears gather in his eyes, but he doesn't let them fall. He can't.

John is instantly at his side, a gentle hand cupping his face. Sherlock frowns and wants to turn away, but he can't. Instead he lets his doctor turn his face so they're eye to eye. Soft, sad grey meets tender brown. An apology then. The shorter man pulls the detective down just enough to touch their lips. It's soft and chaste, but Sherlock feels his heart race.

As they pull away, John looks dismal. Sherlock feels distressed for a moment before his doctor meets his eyes again.

"I didn't say before, Sherlock... I don't know why, but I didn't..."

"Didn't say what?"

John offers a mild smile. "_I love you Sherlock Holmes_."

Sherlock swears his heart sings, despite the anatomical impossibility. He lets himself be pulled down for another tame kiss, but when they draw back this time, brown eyes flick and soft lips grin mischievously.

"Y' know, Mrs Hudson still isn't home..." John hints, and Sherlock can't lead him upstairs fast enough.

* * *

Hahaha, _yay_! You have no idea how happy I am that this is finished! Thank you for reading lovelies! Stick around for the short epilogue! You don't have to, but if you want (grin). Haha, I'm excited now, because I can finally start these three other stories that I have in mind!

Keep in touch, if convenient. If not, keep in touch anyway.

Ciao, loves.

-MS


	10. Epilogue

Ah, the epilogue. Finally. Sorry, I've been out of town all summer. Tomorrow I'm leaving again for a few days...

Anyway, here ya go. Sorry, this is it. Meant for it to be short anyway...

* * *

Sebastian waits patiently for the factory to clear out. A small groan sounds from below him, calling out.

"_Seb_?"

The hitman scrambles to shove his pistol in the holster and scrambles down from his perch. Black eyes gaze at him expectantly.

"_That was fun, wasn't it_?"

Sebastian simply nods, indifferent. He's more concerned with getting help for Jim, but before he can Moriarty is clambering to his feet. He coughs and wheezes, blood spraying out of his mouth and leaking from the bullet wound. Seb grabs his arm and wraps it over his shoulders, allowing his boss to limp alongside him. One of his hands stems the flow of crimson and helps keep the other man upright. He'll survive, but barely. It'll be a long night.

"_Now Seb, don't get that grim look on your face. We'll get them yet_."

"_We'll get them_."


End file.
